U. S. Bot Oard 

THE I • ^» 

7 Cj5 



GREYSON LETTERS: 



SELECTIONS 



FROM THE 



CORRESPONDENCE OE R. E. Ho GREYSON, ESQ. f^^ 



EDITED BY 



HENRY ROGERS, 

AUTHOR OF "the ECLIPSE OP FAITH," "REASON AND FAITH, 
THEIR CLAIMS AND CONFLICTS," ETC. 



BOSTON: 

aOULD AND LINCOLN, 

59 WASHINGTON STREET. 

NEW YORK: SHELDON, BLAKEMAN & CO. 

CINCINNATI : GEORGE S. BLANCHARD. 

1857. 












Elcctrotyped by 
Y/ r. DRAPER, ANDOVER, MASS. 

r r fn t e (1 by 
CXO C. IJAND & AVKUY, BOSTON. 



ADVERTISEMENT 



TO THE 



AMERICAN EDITION 



The title of tliis volume might lead the reader to conclude that 
Mr. Rogers had performed only a subordinate part in its produc- 
tion. A further examination of the work, however, would quickly 
undeceive him. The title is, in fact, only a pleasant fiction ; " Mr. 
Greyson " and Mr. Rogers are one and the same person. Every 
letter in the volume is radiant with the genius of the author of " The 
Eclipse of Faith." 

Whether these letters are part of an actual correspondence — 
whether they were written under the circumstances indicated and 
addressed to the persons to whom they purport to be addressed — 
may give rise to some doubt. A careful consideration of the inter- 
nal evidence will perhaps convince the reader that this feature of the 
work, too, is only a fiction — that " Mr. West," and " Dr. Ellis," and 
the rest, are no more real than " Mr. Greyson." If this be so, it fur- 
nishes fresh ground for admiring the author's genius, so fine is the 

(III) 



IV ADVERTISEMENT. " 

simulation of the actual, so naturally conceived are the imaginary 
situations. 

At this late day, no encomium on the writings of Henry Rogers 
can be needed. Those who have read " The Eclipse of Faith " will 
agree with the London Quarterly Revieto in feeling little doubt that 
" his name will share with those of Butler and of Pascal in the 
gratitude of posterity." But it may be remarked that this new 
work presents its author in a new light. While it shows him to be 
the peer of Bishop Butler as a reasoner, it also shows him to be not 
the inferior of Charles Lamb as a humorist. The great charm of 
the work is that it sets forth a melange of the " grave and gay, 
the lively and severe," mingled in admirable proportions. Wit and 
humor alternate with profound argument on some of the gravest 
questions that concern mankind. 

For the convenience of those not versed in any other than the 
English language, translations of all foreign words and phrases 
occurring in the volume have been inserted at the end in the form 
of notes. 

It may be proi:)er to say here, that the American edition is printed 
from early sheets for which the Publishers have already paid to the 
Author the amount for which he offered them the work. 

Boston, Sept. 1, 1857. 



PREFACE. 



From a large mass of Mr. Greyson's "Letters" the following 
have been selected for publication. It may be inferred that the 
Editor thought them worthy of it ; whether the public will think 
so, the public only can determine. 

That all readers should concur in approving the whole, can 
hardly be anticipated. Some will think the volume contains an 
excess of grave matter — some, an excess of light. It is fortunate 
for an editor when objections are diametrically opposed, as it may 
be hoped they will neutralize one another. At all events, each 
reader, finding something he likes, may forgive something else he 
may wish away. 

It may be permitted me, however, to say that one principal 
reason for admitting so many of the lighter letters, has been to 
relieve and diversify graver matter, and allure to its perusal. 
Their specific levity^ it is hoped, may assist in buoying up and keep- 
ing afloat those more ponderous letters which might otherwise have 
gone at once to the bottom. 

By many in all ages, and by as many in this age as in any, 

Truth is regarded as a medicine which should be disjmised in 

honeyed vehicles ; or, if regarded as wholesome food, is thought 

much more nutritious when made palatable by pleasant condiments. 

With the materials, so conveniently at hand, for complying with this 
1* (V) 



VI PREFACE. 

general humor, the Editor thought it -would be wisdom to use 
them; since he might thereby entice young persons to read JNlr, 
Grey son's letters on subjects which, whatever may be thought of 
his mode of treating them, are at least as grave and momentous as 
can well occupy the human mind. 

At the same time, should it be thought that the lighter letters are 
sufficiently instructive or amusing to repay perusal for their own 
sake, the Editor begs to assure the reader that there are plenty 
more very much at his service. 

The letters on graver subjects may be thought now and then a 
little longer than private letters generally are, or ought to be, — 
though brief enough in relation to the extent and importance of 
the topics treated. The reader must be informed that Mr. Greyson 
was much, perhaps unduly, impressed with the benefit that might 
accrue from private correspondence : he was in the habit of saying 
that "Affection, if it but spoke the Truth, was Truth's best 
pleader ; " and that " if any man would submit to so odious a task 
as writing a long letter, — provided love plainly dictated it, — for the 
special behoof of some one person, it was hardly in human nature 
that that one should not read it with grateful attention , and that 
thus a little tract in the shape of a letter, might do more good than 
a treatise intended for everybody in general, and nobody in partic- 
ular." 

I know he greatly admired an amiable and very accomplished 
friend, (since deceased,) who, secluded from other and more public 
methods of being useful, spent much of his time on a large corres- 
pondence ; actuated, in a great measure, by the hope of obliquely 
benefiting his friends, especially the young. I say obliquely ; for, 
like a wise man, he did it without seeming to do it : there was 



PREFACE. VII 

ncitlier assumption, nor formality, nor dogmatism, in liis letters, 
wliile there was j^lenty of vivacity. Mr. Greyson used to say of 
this friend, that he acted " as gratuitous chamber-counsel ; " and 
that " he deserved as much praise for his quiet benevolence as a 
preacher who should prepare a discourse though he knew he should 
have but a single auditor for his congregation, or a writer who 
should write a book with little hope of more than a solitary reader." 

Some traces of haste, here and there, will be found in these let- 
ters, and need not be apologized for ; for when were private letters 
free from them ? Some repetitions, also, of fact or sentiment (and, 
now and then, almost of expression) will as naturally be expected ; 
for this, too, is an unfailing characteristic of all collections hke the 
present. 

I think I have observed that such compilations often retain details 
so minute as to be uninteresting to the reader ; or allusions to pri- 
vate aifairs so obscure as to be quite unintelligible. I have, there- 
fore, for the most part, left out all such matters. 

The chronological order in the arrangement has been generally 
adopted ; — a little dislocated, however, in the latter part of the 
volume, for the purpose of bringing letters, on related subjects, 
into proximity. Some of them are without dates ; and these have 
been inserted where they seemed most appropriate. In some of 
the more serious letters the reader will here and there find a 
vein of persiflage^ which, perhaps, he would hardly approve in a 
grave treatise : he must recollect that he is not reading a grave 
treatise, but familiar letters, where a little innocent gayety is natural 
and welcome, and perfectly understood by the correspondent. Mr. 
Greyson, however, does not often need apology in any such matter ; 
he may say, as Cowper said, " My readers will hardly have begun 



VIII PREFACE. 

to laugh, before they "will be called upon to correct that levity, and 
peruse me with a more serious air." 

Another class of readers may object that expressions are often 
too colloquial, or the pleasantry too trivial ; they must be content 
with similar criticism, and remember they are reading familiar let- 
ters. Fireside prattle, — table-talk, — the sheet of gossip with a 
friend, — who could endure in the style of a hook ? If this will not 
satisfy the more formal reader, I must leave Mr. Greyson to his 
fate. 

One thing more I must in justice tell the public. It Is impossible, 
I think, that the reader should not discern certain similarities in 
sentiment and style between this volume and some parts of the 
" Eclipse of Faith." I beg to say — on the principle ofsuum cidque 
— that I am largely indebte(i to Mr. Greyson for his contributions 
to that work. Indeed, I willingly ascribe to him the far larger 
share of whatever merit an indulgent public has been pleased to 
see in it, and take all its faults to myself. 

Should any inquisitive reader ask to know a little more of Mr. 
Greyson's history than is disclosed in his own correspondence, I 
answer that his biography, if ever written, — and he took infinite 
pains to prevent any one's having the materials for the purpose, — 
must be written by one who knew him, in his younger days, much 
better than I did. I apprehend, however, that there would be but 
little to tell. Few men ever led a more recluse life, or one more 
barren of incidents that could at all interest the public. 

July 6, 1857. 



CONTENTS 



Lettek. Page. 

I. To Alfred "West, Esq. — On his Recovery from Illness ; Anec- 
dotes of Convalescents, - - - - - - 15 

11. To THE Same. — On a Law of Association, - - - 19 

III. To THE Same — A Novel Expedient, - - - - 22 

IV. To TifE Same. — Extemporaneous Cookeiy; 'JSTe Sutor,' - 25 
V. To THE Same. — On Death-bed Consolations, - - - 29 

VI To Mrs. C R . — On the Loss of an Infant, - - 34 

VII. To C. Mason, Esq. — Query — Condolence or Congratulation? 

Anecdote of a Miser, - - - - - - 38 

VIII To THE Same. — Speculations on Avarice ; Anecdote, - - 42 

IX. To HIS Sister, Mrs. Evans, in India. — A Letter of Home 

Gossip; Early Experiences, - - - - - 45 

X. To C. Mason, Esq. — Old Age sometimes Beautiful, - - 52 

XL To THE Same. — An Amateur Physician, - - - 55 

XXL To the Rev. Charles Ellis, B.D. — Solutions that are none, 57 

XIIL To C. Mason, Esq. — On the Penny Postage, - - - C2 

XIV. To Alfred West, Esq. — Description of a " bustling " Man, G4 

XV. To THE Sasie. — On the Language of Emotions, - - 67 

XVI. To M. . — A Letter of Expostulation, - - - 75 

XVII. To THE Rev. C. Ellis, B.D. — "Mysteries " of Providence 

often none, - - - - - - - 77 



X CONTENTS. 

Letter. Page. 

XVIII. To C. Mason, Esq., ... - - - 82 

XIX. To Captain Evans in India. — English God Manufac- 
turers; Effects of Civilization, - - - - - 84 

XX. To . — The Delights of Reconciliation; Anec- 
dote, 88 

XXI. To Edwin Gretson, Esq., - - - - - 92 

XXII. To T. Greyson. — Letter of Counsels to a Youth, - 93 

XXIII. To Alfred West, Esq. — On the Freaks of Association, 96 

XXIV. To THE Same. — " Societies " and " Branches," - 99 

XXV. To Alfred West, Esq. — Speculations on compulsory 
" Virtue," - - 102 

XXVI. To THE Same. — " Strikes : " Estimate of " Knowledge," 107 

XXVII. To THE Same. — Anecdote of Robert Hall; Human Pug- 
nacity, *-....-- 110 

XXVIII. To THE Same. — On unjust Suspicions; Job and his 

Friends, 113 

XXIX. To THE Same. — Antediluvian Friendships ; Immortality, 118 

XXX. To A Friend who had narrowly escaped spending 
a Night in St. Alban's Abbey. — On the Power of Imag- 
ination, - - - - - -- - 122 

XXXI. To Alfred West, Esq. — What are the best Punish- 
ments of Hypocrisy ?------ 128 

XXXII. To the Sa3ie. — Parental Long-suffering; the Second 

Schooling for Vice, - - - - - -131 

XXXIII. To the Rev. C. Ellis, B.D. — " Christian Evidences," 135 

XXXIV. To the Rev. S. W . — On Pulpit Style, - - 145 

XXXV. To C. Mason, Esq., — Habitual Actions — Automatic or 

Not? 149 

XXXVI. To THE Same. — Early Rising — Preaching and Practice, 154 



CONTENTS . XI 

Lbtteb. Page. 

XXXVII. To THE Same. — A Dialogue " between Myself and Me/' 158 

XXXYIII. To Miss Mart Greyson. — The First of Four Letters on 

Novel Reading, - - - - - . - 163 

XXXIX. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - -170 

XL. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - -173 

XLI. To THE Same. — Subject continued, • - - 176 

XLII. To the Same. — On " Yes " and " No," - - - 182 

XLin. To Alfred West, Esq. — On the Treatment of Crimi- 
nals, - - . . - - 189 

XLIV, To C. Mason, Esq. — The Madman and the Devil, - 194 

XLV. To . — First of Five Letters to an incipient Neol- 

ogist, ...-..,. 199 

XLVI. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - -202 

XLVII. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - - 206 

XLVIII. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - -211 

XLIX. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - -215 

L. To . —Letter on " Prayer," - - - 218 

LI. To THE Same. —Letter on " Prayer," - - - 223 

Ln. To . — Fu-st of Three Letters on the " Atonement," 230 

LIII. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - - - 231 

LIV. To the Same. — Subject continued, .... 237 

LV. To Alfred West, Esq. — Symptoms of imperfect Virtue, 242 

LVL To THE Same. — Unconscious Profundity, - - 245 

LVII. To C. Mason, Esq. — On Human Inconsistencies, - - 253 

LVin. To Alfred West, Esq. — A Dream, - . - 256 

LIX. To Alfred West, Esq. —Thoughts on Emigration, - 261 

LX. To the Rev. J S , Missionary in India, - - 264 



XII CONTENTS. 

Letter. Paob. 

LXI. To Alfred West, Esq. — On a Pedantic Author, - 268 

LXII. To Mrs. L. B., in New Zealand. — To a Friend in New 
Zealand, - - - - - - - - 271 

LXni. To Alfred West, Esq. — On the Essentials of Friend- 
ship, 277 

LXIV. To THE Same. — On the Love of Contradiction, - - 282 

LXV. To C. Mason, Esq. — Mountains versus Books, - - 287 

LXVI. To , Esq. — Counsels to a Dyspeptic Friend, - 291 

LXVII. To R S . — A question on " Conscience " answered, 294 

LXVIII. To . — On a Sophism of " Secularism," - - - 298 

LXIX. To A HoMCEOPATHic Friend. — First of Three Letters to 

a Homoeopathist, -----.- 300 

LXX. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - - . 30G 

LXXI. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - - -310 

LXXII. To Alfred West, Esq. — Feats of the Electric Tele- 
graph, -..---.. 31G 

LXXIII. To A Mesmeric Enthusiast. — First of Three Letters to 

a Mesmeric Enthusiast, ------ 320 

LXXIV. To the Same. — Subject continued, - - - 323 

LXXV. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - - - 327 

LXXVI. To the Rev. C. Ellis. — " Contre-temps," - - 331 

LXXVn. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - - -336 

LXXVIII. To C. Mason, Esq. — On the " Memoirs of a Stomach," - 338 

LXXIX. To R D , A Quaker . — On the Peace Principles, - 341 

LXXX. To Alfred West, Esq, — On the Peace Principles, - 345 

LXXXL To the Rev. Charles Ellis, B.D,— On the Arguments 

for Immortjvlitj', - - - - - - - 352 

LXXXII. To THE Same. — On Comini/ to the Use of Spectacles, - 357 



CONTENTS. XIII 

Letter. .Page, 

LXXXIII. To . — On Behalf of a Young Offender; Visit to 

the Zoological Gardens, ---... 352 

LXXXIV. To THE Rev. C. Ellis. — " Reformatories," - 365 

LXXXV. To Alfred West, Esq. — Anglo-Saxon Criminal 

Code, - . - - • - - -371 

LXXXVI. To THE Same. — " Sedatives of Anger; " Youthful 

Hopes, - - - . - - - .374 

LXXXVII. To THE Same. — On the "Plurality of "Worlds" Contro- 
versy, - - - . - - - - 376 

LXXXVIII. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - -383 

LXXXIX. To THE Rev. C. Ellis. — A Double Defeat and no Vic- 
tory. — Dispute between an Atheist and Deist, - - 386 
XC. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - - -391 

XCI. To A Friend who had become a Deist. — First of 
Eight Letters to a Deist, - - - - - - 400 

XCII. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - -405 

XCIII, To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - -409 

XCIV. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - - 415 

XCV. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - -417 

XCVI. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - r -423 

XCVII. To THE Same. — Subject continued, - - -430 

XC VIII. To the Same —Subject continued, - - -432 

XCIX. To C. Mason, Esq. — On the Discoveries of Dr. Hassall's 
Microscope, --.-... 435 

C. To Alfred West, Esq. — True Catholicism, - . 442 

CI. To C. Mason, Esq. — On Beards, - - . . 445 

CII. To a Gentleman who would be a Christian — 

YET rejected ALL THE PECULIAR FaCTS AND DOCTRINES 
OF " HISTORICAL " CHRISTIANITY, . . - . 449 

2 



Xiv CONTENTS. 

Letter. Page. 

CIII. To A Young Friend disposed to make the " Discrep- 
ancies" IN Scripture a reason for renouncing 
Christianity, ..--.-- 455 

CIV. To the Same. — Subject continued, ... - 4G1 

CV. To Alfred "West, Esq. — " Transmutation " and " Develop- 
ment" Theories, ------- 4(:7 

CVL To the Same. — Subject continued, - - - -470 

CVII. To the Same. — Subject continued, .... 475 

CVIII. To his Nephew T G , Student in the University 

OF Edinburgh. The " Prima Philosophia," - - 481 

CIX. To the Same. — Hints for an " Encomium Atheismi," - 489 

ex. To THE Same — Notice of certain Atlieistical Sopliisms, - 496 

CXI. To THE Same — Brief Answers to Three Queries, - - 505 



GEEYSON LETTERS. 



LETTER I. 

TO ALFKED WEST, ESQ. 

London, Dec. 10, 1838. 
My dear West, 

I congratulate you on having passed that painful, though 
hopeful, stage of convalescence, in Avhich, with a lion of an 
api^etite within, you are allowed only panada, taj^ioca, sago, 
and that entire genus of insipidities, of which we may say, 
as did Job of the "white of an egg,^^ "Is there any taste in 
it ? " To give such things as these to a convalescent aj^pe- 
tite is like feeding the full-grown Hercules with pap. 

There is nothing to me more amusing or gratifying, than 
to see a patient, who, after an exhausting illness, has at 
length been pronounced beyond the chances of a relapse, 
fairly dismissed by his physician, to what is to him the great 
business of life — the re-edification of the dilapidated outer 
man. Lean and gaunt as a wolf, ye gods ! what an insati- 
able maw the man has! How does all thought, feeling, 
affection, centre in that one thing of satisfying — which yet 
is an impossibility — the appetite : it is as if brain, and 
heart, and soul, had all gone to reside in the stomach. 
With what gusto and infinite relish does he accept the small 
hourly prelibations of broth, an oyster, even an egg^ which 
break that seeming eternity, (his impatient fancy counts it 

no seeming)^ between the great events of the day, breakfast 
(15) 



16 THE GREY SON LETTERS. 

and dinner! What an infinite absurdity appears to him 
that languid " coy toying with food," which the mad people 
in health waste their time in ; and what an equal folly that 
ceremonious leaving of the last piece on the dish, appropri- 
ated of old time to " Colonel Manners ! " How spotlessly 
clean is the condition of every platter and cup brought away 
from him, and how superfluous the scullion's ablutions ! 
How is every stray crumb picked up and appropriated with 
a gratitude which says as plainly as any voracious "philan- 
thropic society," " The smallest contributions thankfully 
received ! " How, in the eager impatience of his expectancy 
of a first meal of roast^ does it seem to him that the sun and 
all the clocks in the universe are standing still, and that the 
stupendous blessing of a mutton chop will never come. 

Ah me ! I fear that this very description will make your 
mouth water in an unlawful manner, unless you happen to 
take it in hand in that brief post-prandiimi of half an hour 
or so, which is all the repose, doubtless, that the wolf within 
you allows 

Yet I once knew a philosophic convalescent who delighted 
in the agreeable torments of imagination. He was pro- 
nounced out of danger, but not out of danger of a relapse^ 
and was still confined to the nauseating things called 
" slops." At this stage his favorite reading was the " Cook- 
ery Book," which he insisted on having to bed with him ; 
and after making up all the choicest dishes, and compound- 
ing the most savory receipts, he devoured them — in fancy. 
To most men, I imagine, the employment would have been 
torture, not i^leasure ; as exasperating as the mirage of the 
desert to the traveller famishing with thirst. 

Far different was the case of another friend of mine. He 
had just recovered from an attack of fever, and at length, 
after centuries of delay as seemed to him, the great auspi- 
cious day dawned (an epoch in his life, not to say of the 



TO A CONVALESCENT. 17 

universe) when he was to smell roast in his chamber again, 
and taste a delicate slice of a shoulder of mutton ! His 
wife, his faithful nurse all through, brought up at the ap- 
pointed hour to the ravening man the dainty dish — the 
odor of which steamed towards him- more fragrant than all 
the spices of " Araby the blest." But she had unfortunately 
forgotten the knife and fork, and hastened, after depositing 
the dish in the remotest corner of the room, wdiither she 
thought his drooping, wasted limbs could never drag them- 
selves, to fetch the implement wherewith to cut off that 
delicate transparent sliver, which was all the medical Tan- 
talus had, in his cruel wisdom, permitted. She was gone 
but a moment, but to great minds moments suffice for great 
deeds ; and when she returned, she found, to her horror, 
that her supposed helpless patient, made heroically strong 
by appetite and the scent of burnt flesh, had dragged him- 
self from his bed to his prize, and greatly scorning all the 
precautionary wisdom of doctor and nurse, and all the re- 
finements of a shallow civilization, had seized the whole 
joint with both hands, and, in night-cap and with beard of 
a fortnight's growth, sat tearmg the flesh from the bones 
like a famished wolf. She told me that, what between ter- 
ror of the consequences and the grotesqueness of the spec- 
tacle, she did not know whether to faint or to laugh. As 
to wheedling it away from him, she might as well have come 
between a lion and his prey. 

I think it is Marryat who tells us, in one of his novels, 
speaking of shipwrecked folks and the Thyestes' feasts to 
Avhich hunger compels them, that " no man knows what 
hunger really is till he is willing to eat his own brother." 
Certainly I do not know, if that be the case. I have some- 
times thought — though perhaps you^ with your present 
experience, will rebuke the fond presumptuous confidence — 
that I would sooner be the meat than the guest at such a 

2* 



18 THE GllEYSON LETTERS. 

feast. Yet the uniformity with whicli the phenomenon 
presents itself, when that extremity of hunger presses, 
makes me doubt ; at all events, it is one of those cases in 
which one w^ould prefer presumptuous ignorance to the 
ghastly wisdom of experience. 

Well, my friend, be thankful that you are not likely to 
be cast on such alternatives. Don't look on your nurse or 
your wife with longing eyes, I beseech you. Remember 
there are still beeves and sheep and corn in store, and be 
thankful. 

I have read that, at some siege — of Rochelle, I think — 
the inhabitants were driven to such extremity, that after 
having cleared off the w^hole race of cats, rats, mice, and all 
other unclean beasts, and doubtless even stewed down cast- 
off buckskins, and perhaps old boots ("unco tough," as 
those of Major Bellenden) for a piece de resistance, they 
were driven even to tui'n their parchment title-deeds into a 
costly, though, I apprehend, thin j^otage. Tliink of snipj^ing 
up three or four hundred a year for a basin of mock vermi- 
celli, or to make one poor cup of thin gelatine ! What an 
appropriate punishment for an old miser ! Nay, methinks 
even the genuine, frank-hearted, hospitable man, who had 
called his friends together to partake of this costly, yet 
delicate refection, w^ould press them, with a somewhat rue- 
ful complaisance, to take a cut of that delicious parchment 
fricassee, or try another spoonful of the strong vellum soup ! 

Thrice happy you ! who are not driven to such Apician 
luxuries, — Apician at least in point of expense, if not of so 
l^alatable a quality. " But go thy way, eat the fat and drink 
the sweet ; " but ah ! forget not the latter part of that ex- 
quisite verse, which so beautifully harmonizes permitted 
selfish enjoyment with benevolence towards others — "And 
send portions to them for whom nothing is provided!'''' 
Methinks now I hear you grumble out, with your mouth 



A LA^y OF ASSOCIATION. ID 

full and your spoon going, that you have not enough for 
yourself! Well, well, a week or two hence will do ; eat 
away just now ; but I promise you I shall be surprised and 
disappointed if other people's stomachs are not the better 
for your lone: fist. You are not the man to foracet a thank- 
offering to Ilim who can so easily disjoin our blessings, and 
give us food without appetite, or appetite without food. 

Ever yours, 

E. E. II. G. 



LETTER II. 

TO THE SAME. 



Dec. 27, 1838. 



My deak "West, 

There is a peculiarity about our mental constitution 
as respects " association," which is worthy, I think, of more 
notice than metaphysicians have generally bestowed upon it. 
They have said much, and judiciously, on the principles and 
laws of suggestion in general, and many of the more remark- 
able facts which prove them. But I do not recollect that 
the fact, of which I have to-day had experience most painful, 
yet not unpleasing, has received the attention it deserves, 
though it has been sometimes touched upon. Such facts 
seem very instructive, both as affording an indication of the 
beneficence with which our mental constitution is construct- 
ed, and a presumption of the indestructible vitality which 
probably belongs to every thought and emotion that has 
once been present to us, — " being graven as with a pen of 
iron" on the tablets of memory " forever." 

The fact to which I refer is this : — that while, from habit^ 
those objects become in<:lifferent to us which in themselves 
are most likely to excite vivid associations with any of the 



20 THE GKEYSON LETTERS. 

great events of our past life, and which immediatel}' after 
the occurrence of such events, did so to a pitch of rapture 
or agony, the most trivial of such objects that happens to 
have lain concealed, and is suddenly discovered after a lajDse 
of years, shall prove to us that the whole power of associa- 
tion is unimpaired. Unlocking the cells of memory which 
had been closed perhaps for a quarter of a century, it shall 
set the soul deeply musing, and seem to chide it for being 
so stolidly forgetful in the daily presence of objects much 
more intimately connected Avith our feelings of that distant 
date ; and finally perhaps, (as has been the case with me 
this day), dissolve us in emotions which we vainly thought 
we had ceased to feel for ever ! Thus, for example, on 
losing one very dear to us, every object is a Medusa's head ; 
the sight, the presence of mere trifles wall excite profound 
melancholy, or melt us into tears. But as day after day 
passes, new associations deposit themselves, so to speak, 
around these objects ; or rather, if I may change the meta- 
phor, cover the exposed and exquisite nerves of the bleeding 
soul with a new cuticle, and thus mercifully blunt its sensi- 
bility. Thus we can still linger in the dwelling wdiich the 
death of those we love has for ever darkened, and read the 
books again we once read together ; touch the piano, over 
which those loved fingers strayed ; sleep in the very cham- 
ber where they looked the last look of love ; pass the very 
path w^liich leads straight by the sepulchre where we laid 
them in such agony of sorrow, and often, yes, often never 
think of them at all ! But meantime, in turning out the 
contents of an old drawer, in setting to rights a desk or 
wardrobe, let but the eye rest on some memorial of the past, 
never seen since those happy days, — trivial enough it may 
be, — and it seems to come straight to us from the distant 
land wdiere they dwell, to upbraid us with our forgetfulness. 
It may be a little note, utterly valueless in its contents, but 



A LAW OF ASSOCIATION. 21 

in that sweet hand ^ve remember so well ; a faded ribbon, 
love's gift in those yonthful days ; an old broken pencil case ; 
a little book, redolent still of the dying fragrance in which 
love had embalmed its gift ; and swift ! — the past is pres- 
ent, the distant near ; solemn shapes beckon to ns from the 
depths of time ; the voices of memory mnrmur in our ears, 
and the soul lives all its sorrows over again vividly as ever. 
It has been so with me to-day. It was a trifle, such as the 
above mentioned ; a flower, pale and faded, emblematic of 
the joys it told of, carefully smoothed and folded, m a little 
book. And so it told me when it was given, and to whom, 
and for what ; and how it had been taken great care of 
when it was first given, and that the book had been faithful 
to its trust. I am (shall I confess it ?) half ashamed to say 
that I sat down, and looked and mused at the poor symbol 
till memory overwhelmed me with the past, and I shed 
some of the most bitter and j^assionate tears I have shed 
since childhood. 

ISTo wonder that the classifications of the laws of sugges- 
tion, Hume's three, or Brown's four, or somebody else's 
dozen for aught I know, are insufiicient to comprehend all 
possible cases of association. Resemblance, contrast, con- 
tiguity in time or place, cause and efiect, do not exhaust 
them : for to these must be added any relation whatsoever 
between any two or more things whatsoever ; and I hope 
that is comprehensive enough! Anything may suggest 
anything, according to the momentary mood of the individ- 
ual mind, as well as according to the laws of mind in general. 

But, assuredly, the things now adverted to are presump^ 
tion of both the fiicts I set out with : — that the past but 
" sleeps " and is not " dead " within us ; and that it is a 
proof of the beneficence with Avhich the mind has been 
constructed, that we become blind and deaf to objects far 
more fit to awaken memory than are the rarely seen trifles 



22 THE GRFA'SON LETTERS. 

that often do what the former cannot. If it were otherwise, 
it would be impossible to live in the Avorld at all after any 
great trouble. Everything would Avear perpetual mourning 
to us. I know no reason why it should not be so : why 
everything should not continue to aifect us as strongly as at" 
first, or as strongly as these insignificant things which if not 
seen for a time possess this strange power ; for to say it is 
habit is but to repeat the fact that we are so constituted. 
We know no reason ; we can only say that such is our con- 
stitution ; and like the other laws of mind, it affords a prj3- 
sumption of a beneficent Creator who knew that we must 
not remember the ^:)as^ every day, or we could not live the 
present day to any purpose : nor wholly forget the past^ but 
be held to it by invisible ties, else the discipline of sorrow 
and the schooling of life would be for us in vain. 

Ever yours, 

R. E. H. G. 

P. S. — I rejoice to infer from your letter that you are 
quite yourself again, and have had no relapse. 



LETTER III. 

TO THE SA:JrE. 

London, March 22, 1839. 
My dear "West, 

I gave the poor man, as you requested, a few shillings, 
because lie came from you ; and if he had been without any 
such recommendation, I would gladly have given him as 
much to get rid of him. What a terrible hore he is ! He 
is, I doubt not (as you say), a sensible man : but there are 
people whose sense is worse than other people's nonsense ; 
and as you listen to the solid, unimpeachable, prolix, slowly- 
pronounced common-place, you feel almost made a convert 



A MORAL PROPOSED. 23 

to paradox, and are ready to deny everything that the good 
soul utters. The truest and the grandest things in the 
world suifer inexpressibly from such doleful commentators. 

I almost think there ought to be a tax imposed on every 
dull good man who ventures to open his lips in the way of 
moral prosing, considering the injury he does truth and 
goodness ; he ought to be forbidden to preach to his fellow 
creatures, except by what is infinitely more persuasive than 
any eloquence — good deeds and an attractive example. 
It is melancholy to think of the havoc which a dull speaker 
will soon make in a crowded audience. The preaching of 
some good parsons is like reading the Riot Act, or reminds 
one of that ingenious method by which it is said the magis- 
trates of St. Petersburg sometimes cool the zeal of a mob in 
that genial climate, — that is, by playing on them with a 
fire-engine. 

I cannot conceive of what use this poor clergyman can be, 
unless indeed our churches and chapels were crowded to 
suffocation ; then one or two like him might be employed 
to itinerate about the country and bring down crowded con- 
gregations to par. A very few, however, would be sufii- 
cient ; the efifects of the sermon, and consequently its length, 
might be regulated by a thermometer. But great care 
would be necessary in the ajopUcation : for a little excess in 
the duration of the humdrum might end in the extinction 
of the audience altogether. In any case, I think, it should 
be provided by law that no such enthusiasm-extinguisher 
should be permitted to play more than an hour, lest the 
congregation should be annihilated. One might then read 
such announcements as these : " The church of that lively 
preacher, the Rev. , was on Sunday sen'night so exces- 
sively crowded, even to the aisles and pulpit-stairs, that it 
was found necessary to send for the most ' distinguished ' of 
the ' extinguishing' preachers, to counteract the efiJects of 



24 THE GKEYSON LETTERS. 

his oratory last Sunday night. So effectual was the elo- 
quence of this gentleman, that in twenty minutes the ther- 
mometer fell ten degrees in the gallery, and the air of the 
church before the benediction became delightfully cool and 
salubrious !" 

But our dull acquaintance told me one thing I was glad 
to hear. So young W is really applying to his pro- 
fession in earnest. As it was said of some pope (Leo. X., 
if I recollect), that he would have been an excellent man 
if he had had but the slightest tincture of reUgioii^ and of 
another pope, that he was a very good man for a pope, — 
so I am ready to say of our young friend, that he has been 
a good student for a young man of expectations, and that 
he would make an excellent lawyer, if he had but the 
slightest tincture of "law." He certainly has, and emi- 
nently, all the qualities of mind which would make an ex- 
cellent lawyer: great logical acuteness; ingenuity in the 
" invention" of arguments, — I use the word in its rheto- 
rical, not in any invidious sense, — and much subtlety and 
quickness of apprehension. And so I hope I shall yet hear 
of him shining at the bar. If not, — at least if some seri- 
ous occupation of life does not engross him, — all his money 
will not save him. He is of too lively a temperament, and 
too excitable passions, to live a life of fat indolence. " Mo- 
ney answereth all things," saith Solomon ; and so it doea 
in one sense. It can " answer the purpose " of all things 
that it will exchange for, or that will exchange for it ; it 
can purchase other people's time, industry, learning, if we 
have none of our own, and can even pick up a sort of 
second-hand faded beauty and reputation ; but it cannot, 
amongst other things, buy the advantages which attend the 
very process of producing the things it buys. These advan- 
tages of our possessions come in the getting of them, and 
are usually far more valuable than the possessions them- 



EXTEMPORANEOUS COOKERY. 25 

selves ; — I mean freedom from eymui / a mind habitually 
preoccupied, and thus shut against many temptations, " not 
at home " when Satan knocks at the door ; imagination and 
passions in the busy school and under the ferula of the prac- 
tical reason, and without leisure to go gaping out into the 
streets in search of idleness, mischief, vain hopes, and moral 
chuck-farthing; a contented, because a busy mind; the 
consciousness of useful exertion at the day's end ; the 
healthful weariness which brings healthful repose; all of 
which are amongst the guards, if not the rewards of 

virtue. 

Ever yours affectionately, 

R. E. H. G. 



LETTER IV. 

TO THE SAME. 

LoxDON, July, 1839. 

Eupr/Ka ! Evpi^Ktt ! Congratulate me, my dear friend. I 
am made, for life. If every other resource fail, I find I can 
turn cook. 

Yesterday was a broiling day with us. I am speaking of 
the weather, and you see how naturally I fall into metaphors 
congruous to my new occupation. Thermometer at 86 in 
the shade. 

But to my business ; only follow me to the cuisine^ and 
I promise you shall all but die with envy at the thought of 
my accompUshments. 

My little household yesterday consisted of my sister and 
two servants. An old acquaintance of my sister's was 
expected to a family dinner. I wanted a little business done 
in two different directions, and wished the two servants to 
go. " But the dinner ! " said my housekeeper. I looked 

3 



26 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

despairingly through the Venetian blinds at the blazing sky. 
A bright thought struck me. " It is better to roast than 
be roasted, any way," said I ; "7" will cook the dinner." 
She laughed, and asked " Who would eat it ? " This saucy 
challenge confirmed me. " Away with them," said I ; 
" put me in possession of the kitchen. What is to be 
cooked ? " " Oh, it is only to roast a leg of lamb ; and as 
to the pudding, anything you Z/A'e," said she maliciously ; 
*' but whether anybody else will like it, I have my doubts." 
No sooner said than done. I shut and barred the kitchen 
door and went to work. I cudgelled my brains to remem- 
ber what I had seen in that region of fiery but pleasing 
mysteries when I was a child, and used to Avatch with won- 
der and delight, and keen presaging appetite, the progress 
of the " neat-handed Phillis." Faint were the " antiquse 
vestigia flannnse." However, I made short work with the 
fiery part of the process. I looked at the joint — had dim 
recollections of having seen it well sprinkled with flour and 
then put to the fire : I sprinkled it accordingly, and com- 
mended it to Vulcan. " Let him look after it noAv," said 
I; "it is his business, and not mine." Then came the 
grand arcanum — the pudding. " Simplicity," said I, 
" after all, is the great secret of cookery, as of every other 
fine art." I resolved on a primitive form, — a pudding 
under the meat. That is soon made, I thought. A couple 
of handfuls of flour, with a little water, were mixed up in a 
bowl ; it was too soft y more flom-, too dry / more water, 
too soft ; more flour, too dry ; more water, — and so it 
went on, and I began to despair of the fji-q ayav, the 7ie 
nimis — tha juste milieu — the — what word can express 
the happy mean of solid and fluid, wherein the law of 
cohesion only just reigns? Meantime my ugly pudding 
was assuming alarmingly voluminous dimensions. At last 
I got it of the required consistence, rolled it out into a huge 



NE SUTOR. 27 

plane that half covered the dripping-pan, and chucked it in 
to let it take its chance. I then sat down, complacently 
enough, at the further extremity of the cool kitchen with 
a book ; occasionally glancing with a curious yet admiring 
eye, at the twirling joint, and hearing with much satisfac- 
tion the click of the jack as it reversed the motion ; now 
and then alarmed, however, lest the whirligig should stop 
and involve in catastrophe my entire planetary system. At 
length the servants returned, near dinner-time. I abdicated 
with secret joy and outward solemnity, and left the kitchen 
to their undisputed occupancy. I heard the jades giggling, 
as I went up stairs, doubtless at that huge, ill-conditioned, 
hapless puddmg that was lying sprawling and seething in 
the dripping-pan. 

Well, dinner came at last, and was brought in amidst 
suppressed titters by Anne, and not sujopressed laughter 
from my sister and her friend. I was as grave as a judge, 
and felt that, having now provided so elegant a repast, it 
became me to do the honors of my table with due ein- 
pressement. I played the assiduous Amphitryon accordingly. 
As to the pudding, it was a phenomenon. On the south 
side, (towards the fire, that is,) scorched to a cinder; on 
the north, unknown regions of flabby, ill-looking dough: 
the east and west exhibited delicate tints of every shade 
between black and white. In the centre a Mediterranean 
puddle of dripping. I make no doubt that it was exquisite 
in taste, but unhappily I could not get any one to partake 
of it. I attributed this, of course, to their wish that I 
should have this delicacy, which was the chef (Vceiivre of 
my art, all to myself. It was in vain that I assured them 
that there was enough and to spare ; they would not hear 
of such a thing as depriving me of a j^article of it. Not to 
be outdone in politeness, and determined that I would not 
greedily appropriate so rare a delicacy to myself, I, with 



28 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

much moderation of mind, contented myself with taking on 
the tip of my fork the merest morsel, which, I assure you, 
I found rich beyond description ; then, rather than seem 
selfish, I waived the incomparable dish away. I doubt not, 
after all, that my sister and her friend saw it go away with 
secret remorse and misgivings ; or were they, after all, so 
envious of my skill that they were determined not to be 
able to^ bear witness, by an experimentmn gustus^ to my 
superiority ? If so, envy, as usual, was its own punishment ; 
for, rely upon it, they would never taste any thing like that 
pudding again as long as they lived. 

" But what as to the leg of Iamb ? " you will say. My 
dear friend, it was roasted on the most philosophical prin- 
ciples, just as the earth is roasted by the sun ; quite after 
the planetary model ; and what more would you have ? 
There was the north and south pole, where the arctic and 
antarctic fat still lay in primitive whiteness. There w^as the 
torrid zone, just opposite the equatorial fire, utterly scorched 
up, and unendurable, as the ancients assure us we ought to 
find the tropics. But let me tell you, there was on each 
side of this a happy strip of a tem2)erate zone, extending a 
full inch each way, from w^hich I cut some delicious slices, 
and which, if there had but been another parallel or two 
of latitude, would have sufficed for the whole household. 
You may say, perhaps, that this was not an economic way 
of cooking a leg of lamb. But can there be a better ^\^J 
than that adopted by the sun Aerself, as our Saxon fathers 
would say, — " that fair, hot wench in the flame-colored 
tafieta ? " The only improvement I can suggest, and cer- 
tainly I shall try it next time, — that is, if I can ever get 
admittance into the ciiisme for a second experiment, — is 
this ; not to let the axis of revolution be perpendicular to 
the plane of the dripping pan, but exactly adjusted to an 
angle of 23° 30': in this way I doubt not I shall have a 



DEATH-BED CONSOLATIONS. 29 

larger temperate region, and shall be able to get dinner 

enough for a moderate household out of a couple of legs of 

mutton or so. Give me your felicitations, I beseech you, 

on this happy occurrence in the history of your friend, and 

believe me 

Yours truly, 

E. E. H. G. 

P. S. — Should you be giving any large parties durmg the 
coming winter, I shall be most happy, as Counsellor Pley- 
dell said, in reference to the " sauce for the wild ducks," 
to give you " my poor thoughts " on any of the more diffi- 
cult entrees or entreinets you may be ambitious of trying. 



LETTER V. 

TO THE SAME. 



Auff. 1839. 



My Dear "West, 

I have often wondered what an Atheist can have to say 
at a death-bed : though I suppose he is seldom present at 
any — except his own. It must surely be an awkward place 
for hira. A man who thinks this w^orld all, must find it hard 
to say anything consolatory to one who feels that all fleet- 
ing away from him. How consoling it must be for a wife 
to be told by her husband — " We are about, my dear crea- 
ture, to part, — and to part forever ; but let not that disturb 
you ; let me remind you that it is a universal law. You 
are nothing but a chance-composition of organic molecules, 
nor am I anything more ; we shall never have individual 
consciousness again. But let me tell you, for your unspeak- 
able consolation, that you will pass into new forms, and 
sublimely, though unconsciously, last forever I " The conso- 
lation is "unspeakable." 

3* 



30 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

On the other hand, the Christian at a death-bed has often 
just as Uttle to say ; not because nothing can be said — but 
because Uttle need be. I will give you an example. 

I was recently asked one summer evening by a friend (a 
medical man in the country, with whom I was staying) to 
visit the cottage of a poor fellow whose wife was dying of 
consumption. It was just one of the common cases ; the 
germs of our national j^lague were in her constitution from 
the beginning. She had married ; she had borne one child. 
Soon after her confinement, the symptoms of consumption 
rai^idly develoj^ed themselves ; and she bore up bravely 
against the malady as long as she could. Her husband had 
obtained for her all the comforts he could command ; and 
my benevolent friend, the practitioner aforesaid, bestowed 
all his skill gratis. He had, on the like charitable terms, 
obtained the opinion of a physician, because he thought it 
would be an additional satisfaction to his poor patient to 
know that no meaps had been left untried. The physician 
saw at a glance that nothing was to be done — except the 
painful task of saying so ; a task, however, which he shrank 
from performing. The usual jDalliatives in the early and 
later stages had all been tried with the customary fruitless- 
ness ; and all that, as usual, was left for the physician, Avas 
to " indorse " the customary declaration respecting his 
brother-practitioner's most judicious and most useless treat- 
ment, and certify that the patient was dying in the very 
best way possible under the conduct of much human wisdom 
and skill, — which means, in all such cases, human ignorance 
and impotence. 

I told her as gently as I could — what I supposed not only 
her own fears had told her already, but my medical friend also 
— that human art could do no more and that she must prepare 
to die. The husband was sitting by her bed-side. I saw a 
shudder pass through his frame, and that hope had only that 



DEATH-BED CONSOLATIONS. 31 

moment been dislodged from his heart ; he looked at me with 
a peculiar expression of mingled stupefaction and hon-or. But 
he broke out into no womanly complaints, for he was a strong 
minded man. After a moment, he turned a fixed look of pecu- 
liarly solemn tenderness on his wife, and gently laid his hand 
in hers, as if he w^ould arrest her as she was setting out on the 
dark passage. On the other hand, to my surprise, she w^as far 
less aifected than he. She received the tidino-s wdth calm 
and silent acquiescence ; then said simply, " I am j^repared 
for it; I have sometimes felt it must be so." She glanced 
at the opened Bible which her husband had been reading to 
her, and turning to him, said — " We shall meet again ; I 
know Whom I have believed ; and you know Him too. 
In our Father's house are many mansions, and He has gone 
to prepare a place for us." She quoted some of the pas- 
sages which glow with the poetry of heaven and immor- 
tality ; and as he listened, his sorrow seemed to catch 
bright gleams from the reflection of her ow^n calm enthu- 
siasm ; like a dark cloud at the close of a wintry day, which 
the setting sun suddenly lights up with a glow of transient 
splendor. I sat gazing upon them in speechless sympathy. 
They did not seem sensible of my presence ; for they were 
absorbed in those all-unutterable thoughts which make the 
presence of all the world just the same as solitude. Keither 
did they say much ; they were talking with their eyes, and 
were speaking volumes in moments of time. 

Here was a strange thing ! Here was something, then, 
that had reversed the natural position of these two crea- 
tures. The peace was hers, w^ho w^as about to die — the 
perturbation and the sorrow chiefly his, wdio w^as to live : 
nay, whatever softened gleam of lustre relieved his sorrow 
was the brigl^t reflection of her setting glory. " Let it be 
all a grand delusion," thought I ; " yet since Death is, for 
all of us, the great event of life — in the transaction of 



32 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

which we live more than a life, while those who survive 
have the whole of after-life affected by it, — how priceless 
must be that, whatever it is, which gives hopes like these !" 

The cottage window was open ; the setting sun shone in 
with a flood of radiance ; the evening zephyr, laden with 
the fi-agrant breath of jasmine and honeysuckle, gently 
stirred the window-curtains to and fro, as though minister- 
ing spirits were stealing in and out of that peaceful room. 
At any other moment I should have regarded all this as a 
horrible incongruity. I can recollect that qjice or twice in 
my life, in the chamber of the dying, I have lifted the win- 
dow-curtain in the weary morning watch, and, as I looked 
into the cold gray dawn, and saw the last pale stars so peace- 
fully shining and heard the faint preluding twitter of the birds 
beginning their matin carol ; or, more incongruous still ! — 
caught a glimpse of the broad sun lifting up his jocund 
face from the horizon, and calling a busy, thoughtless world 
to renewed activity and care, — I have thought it almost a 
sin in nature to be so deeply peaceful while humanity lay 
wrestling there in its last agony. But I had no such 
thoughts on this occasion. The setting sun, which shone 
through and through the clouds which lay on the horizon, 
and turned them to molten gold, seemed to me a fitting 
emblem of a Hope which thus converted the darkest sor- 
rows of life into a diadem of glory. The living world it 
was which now looked so cold and dreary. It was we — the 
living — who seemed to have our faces towards the bleak 
north, and to be journeying from the sun. To him, to me 
also, from sympathy — she seemed the enviable. She was 
about to be born — born into Immortality ; while we, the liv- 
ing, were but ensepulchred in a world on which the shad- 
ows of night and death lay so heavy ^ 

Who shall estimate the value, in such an hour, of that 
hope and faith which thus lead the parting soul to enter on 



DEATH-BED CONSOLATIONS. 33 

its lonely journey with tranqnillity ? which enables the ear 
(as it were) already to catch, as we descend the dim -pas- 
sage between this world and the next, the sound of the key 
turning in the lock which shuts out from us eternal sunshine ; 
the key of " Him who opens and no man shuts, who shuts 
and no man opens ; " of Him who Himself passed through 
the same " via dolorosa," but who, as His faithful disciples 
enter it, lovingly shows Himself at the gate which opens 
into Paradise, lets in on the ravished soul the streaming 
light of the everlasting day, and suffers it to catch glimpses 
of the ever-vernal scenes beyond ? 

"It is all a dream," says the Atheist. Then let me 
dream on, you fool. The dream is better than reality — 
this falsehood than the truth ! 

For what is your truth worth, most truth-loving Atheist, 
in that hour to which these poor souls had come, and to 
which all must come in a few short years of troubled joys, 
j^erhaps of hardly any joys at all ? 

Let us hold fast to our lie, my friend, if it be one ; for it 
is infinitely better than an Atheist's verities. The time 
must come at last when the value of his theories must be 
tried ; the one hour, when only to have lived in happiness, 
if there be nothing further to hope, will inflict a pang for 
which that happiness is no compensation ; hoAV much less if 
there be not only nothing to hope, but everything to fear ! 

Yours ever, 

E. E. H. G. 



34 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

LETTER YI. 

TO MES. C 11 . 



London, 1839 
JMy Sweet Cousin, 

I liave in vain tried to tell a lie for your sake, and say, — 
I condole with you. 

But it is impossible. Plow can I, with my deep convic- 
tions that your little floweret, and every other so fading, is 
but transplanted into the more congenial soil of Paradise, 
and shall there bloom and be fragrant forever ? How can I 
lament for one who has so cheaply become an " heir of im- 
mortality ? " who will never remember his native home of 
earth, nor the transient pang by which he was born into 
heaven ! who will never even know that he has suffered ex- 
cept by being told so ! Shall we lament that he has not 
shared our fatal privilege of an experience of guilt and 
sorrow ? Is this so precious that we can wish him partaker 
of it ? My cousin, those who die in childhood are to be 
envied and felicitated, not dej^lored ; so soon, so happily 
have they escaped all that we must wish never to have 
known. 

" Innocent souls, thus set so early free 
From sin, and sorrow, and mortality." 

who can weep for them^ as he thinks of the fearful hazards 
that all must run who have gro^vTi up to a personal acquaint- 
ance with sin and misery ? 

An ancient Greek historian tells us it was a custom among 
a people of Scythia to celebrate the birth of a child with 
the same mournful solemnities with which the rest of the 
world celebrate a funeral. So intensely dark, yet so true 
(apart from the gospel), was the view they took of what 
awaits man in life ! The custom was fully justified, in my 



ON THE LOSS OF AN INFANT. 35 

judgment, by a heathen view of thhigs ; and if it would be 
unseemly among us, it is only because Christianity has 
brought " life and immortality to light," and assures us that 
this world may become, for all of us, the vestibule of a 
better. 

" You are very philosophical," you will say ; " you talk 
very fine — but you do not feel as you talk." Excuse me, 
my dear, I talk just as I have always felt ever since I came to a 
knowledge of Christianity and of human life ; and often — yes, 
often in the course of my own, (and let the thought be con- 
solation to you, for how do you know that your little one 
might not have tasted the same bitter experience ?) — often 
in the course of my life, as I have looked back and seen how 
much of it has been blurred and wasted ; what perils I have 
run of spiritual shipwreck ; what clouds of doubt still often 
descend and envelop the soul ; what agonies of sorrow I 
have passed through, — often have I cried, with hands smit- 
ing each other and a broken voice, " Oh ! that I had been 
thus privileged early to depart ! " — But you cannot imag- 
ine a mother echoing such feelings in relation to her own 
child ! Can you not ? Come, let us see. 

There was once a mother, kneeling by the bedside of the 
little one whom she hourly expected to lose. With what 
eyes of passionate love had she watched every change in 
that beautiful face ! How had her eyes pierced the heart of 
the physician, at his last visit, when they glared rather than 
asked the question whether there yet was hope ! How had 
she wearied heaven with vows that if it would but grant — 
" Ah ! " you say, " you can imagine all that without any 
difficulty at all." 

Imagine this too. Overwearied with watching, she fell 
into a doze beside the couch of her infant, and she dreamt 
in a few moments (as we are wont to do) the seeming his- 
tory of long years. She thought she heard a voice from 



36 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

heaven say to her, as to Ilezeldah, " I have seen thy tears, 
I have heard tliy prayers ; he shall live ; and yourself shall 
have the roll of his history presented to you." " Ah ! " 
you say, " you can imagine all that too." 

And straightway she thought she saw her sweet child in 
the bloom of health, innocent and playful as her fond heart 
could wish. 

Yet a little while, and she saw him in the flush of open- 
ing youth ; beautiful as ever, but beautiful as a young 
panther, from whose eyes wild flashes and fitful passion ever 
and anon gleamed; and she thought how beautiful he 
looked, even in those moods, for she was a mother. But 
she also thought how many tears and sorrows may be need- 
ful to temper or quench those fires ! 

And she seemed to follow him through a rapid succession 
of scenes — now of troubled sunshine, now^ of deep gather- 
ing gloom. His sorrows were all of a common lot, but 
mvolved a sum of agony far greater than that which she 
would have felt from his early loss : yes, greater even to 
her — and how much greater to him ! She saw him more 
than once wrestling with pangs more agonizing than those 
which now threatened his infancy ; she saw him involved in 
error, and with difiiculty extricating himself; betrayed into 
youthful sins, and repenting with scalding tears; she saw 
him half ruined by transient prosperity, and scourged into 
tardy wisdom only by long adversity ; she saw him worn 
and haggard with care — his spirit crushed, and his early 
beauty all wan and blasted ; worse still, she saw him thrice 
stricken with that very shaft which she had so dreaded 
to feel but once, and mourned to think that her prayers had 
prevailed to prevent her ow^n sorrows only to multiply his ; 
worst of all, she saw him, as she thought, in a darkened 
chamber, kneeling beside a cofiin in which Youth and 
Beauty slept their last sleep ; and, as it seemed, her own 



ON THE LOSS OF AN INFANT. 87 

image stood beside hira, and uttered unheeded love to a 
sorrow that " refused to be comforted ; " and as she gazed 
on that face of stony despair, she seemed to hear a voice 
which said, " If thou icilt have thy floweret of earth unfold 
on earth, thou must not wonder at bleak winters and inclem- 
ent skies. Z would have transplanted it to a more genial 
clime ; but thou wouldest not." And with a cry of terror 
she awoke. 

She turned to the sleeping figure before her, and, sob- 
bing, hoped it was sleeping its last sleep. She listened for 
his breathing — she heard none ; she lifted the taper to his 
lips — the flame wavered not ; he had indeed passed away 
while she dreamed that he lived ; and she rose from her 
knees, — and was comfokted. 

" Ah ! " you will say, — " These sorrows could 7iever have 
been the lot of my sweet child ! " It is hard to set one's 
logic against a mother's love : I can only remind you, my 
dear cousin, that it has been the lot of thousands, whose 
mothers, as their little ones crowed and laughed in their 
arms in childish happiness, would have sworn to the same 
impossibility. But for you^ — you know what they could 
only believe ; — that it is and impossibility. Nay, I might 
hint at yet profounder consolation, if indeed, there ever ex- 
isted a mother who could fancy that, in the case of her oicn 
child, it could never be needed. Yet facts sufliciently show 
us, that what the dreaming mother saw, — errors re- 
trieved, sins committed but repented of, and sorrows that 
taught wisdom, — are not always seen, and that children 
may, in spite of all, persist in exploring the path of evil — 
" deeper and deeper still ! " With the shadow of uncer- 
tainty whether it may not be so with any child, is there no 
consolation in thinking that even that shadow has passed 
away ? For ought we know, many and many a mother 
may hereafter hear her lost darling say — " Sweet mother, I 

4 



38 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

was taken from you a little while, only that I might abide 
with you forever ! " 

Remember Coleridge's " Epitaph on an Infant," and let 
it console you : 

" Ere Sin could blight or Sorrow fade. 
Death came with friendly care, 
The opening bud to heaven conveyed, 
And bade it blossom there." 

Ever yours affectionately, 

E. E. H. G. 



LETTER YII. 

T o c. maso:n-, esq. 



London, 1839. 



My dear Mason, 

I have been writing to our charming cousin Mrs. R 

a letter — of condolence I can hardly call it ; of congratula- 
tion, it ought rather to be called — on the death of her little 
one. And why should it not ? Now do not think me 
another Herod — for I do not wish sucklings to be sent out 
of the world in his fashion ; but I never could understand 
the extreme sorrow which mothers in general evince at the 
death of very young infants ; " Rachel weeping for her chil- 
dren, and refusing to be comforted." The absolute uncer- 
tainty of a child's lot, if spared, and the certainty (as I take 
it) that all dying in their cradles are nurselings of heaven ; 
not only snatched from much suffering and temptation, but 
made happy in Him who has '' redeemed them " to himself, 
who on earth so expressly challenged them for his own, and 
who, I doubt not, will welcome them to Paradise, is suffi- 
cient to reconcile my mind to their death. Why should 
we grudge them their early rest, or wish to postpone it ; 



QUERY — CONDOLENCE OB CONGRATULATION? 89 

nay, as far as we can see, endanger it, by keeping tliera 
here ? When our Saviour was on earth, mothers pressed 
with their infants to let them be encircled in those lovino: 
arms, and have His hand rest upon their little heads one 
moment. Why should they repine that He takes them from 
their unsafe guardianship, and folds them in the " everlast- 
ing arms " for ever ? that they are gone where they are to 
know only good without evil, and joy, but never sorrow ? 

But it is hard to get any mother to subscribe to this 
sound doctrine ; they won't believe that a little one of theirs 
has aught but a bright life before him ; and I dare say 
Madam Eve never for a moment dreamt that little Master 
Cain could come to any ill. 

It may be morbid, — I dare say it is, — but I never could 
look on childhood's green leaf without thinking of the sear 
of autumn, and mourning that it should live to reach it. 
" Time that spoils all things, " says Cowper, " will turn my 
kitten into a cat ; " or as Bishop Earle says of the young 
child — " The older he is, he is a stair lower from God, and, 
like his first father, much worse in his breeches. " I feel 
with the good old humorist — " Could the child put off his 
body with his child's coat, he had got eternity without a 
burden, and exchanged but one heaven for another." 

For my part, I fancy I should not grieve if the whole 
race of mankind died in its fourth year. " If that were the 
case, " you will say, " the human race would die out in the 
next generation." Very true ; and as far as loe can see, I 
do not know that it would be a thing much to be lamented ; 
but since it is not His will, who permits this world of sin 
and sorrow to continue, it becomes us to beheve, though we 
cannot see, that it is for the best. 

I have often thought that if (as I think the ISTew Testa- 
ment and reason equally teach us, maugre the opinion of 
some uncharitable fethers who thought the contrary,) all, 



40 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

wlio die infants, are young denizens of heaven, we may look 
with somewhat mitigated horror even on one of the worst 
practices of the heathen, — though, as usual, the undesign- 
ed consequences do not make their actions the less atrocious. 
Infimticide, we may well hope, has peopled heaven with 
myriads upon myriads of happy immortals, who, if they had 
grown up, would have worn scalps at their girdles, and 
been devout worshippers of the great ''Tonguataboo," or 
some such divine monster. The Arch-enemy has in this 
case outwitted himself; he has been rendering heaven more 
populous, much against his will; hounding into the ever- 
lasting fold the young lambs of the flock, who would other- 
w^ise have lost themselves on the " dark mountains. " "The 
tender mercies of the wicked are cruel ; " it is well that 
sometimes his cruelties should undesignedly turn out merciful. 

In serious earnest, however, I think that of all calamities 
Providence visits us with, that of the loss of an infant a few 
days old is, with the New Testament in our hands, about 
the most tolerable. That cup has but a very slight tincture 
of the waters of Marah ; others require skilful infusion of all 
the mgredients of the Gospel to turn them into a cup of 
thanksgiving, — or even overcome their mtense bitterness. 
But do not tell Charlotte this, — or she will certainly think 
me hard-hearted. 

I rejoice that you have got fifty pounds for your "Dis- 
pensary " from so unexpected a source. I can hardly be- 
lieve that you are not jesting with me. Surely you must 
have had the old miser at some advantage, given you by 
your art ; perhaps he thought himself at death's door, — 
and you secretly threatened, — if he did not do the hand- 
some thing, — to let him die unaided by professional skill. 
Would that be an evil ? some calumniators of your art 
might say. 

I can assure you I feel much as Fontenelle did, when 



ANECDOTE OF A MISER. 41 

Regnier, secretary of the French Academy, was collectmg 
subscriptions of the members for some common object, and 
inadvertently applied to the President Roses (who was an 
old miser) a second time. He said he had paid. " I be- 
lieve yon, " politely said Regnier, " though I did not see it ; 
"and I," said Fontenelle, "though I saw it, do not believe it." 

Your miserly patient, in the complacency with which he 
gloats on his successful speculations, and recounts his acts 
of saving as if they were highly virtuous, — reminds me of 
an old Lancashire gentleman who lived and died under a 
similar delusion. " Yes " — said he, with much gravity, to 
a worthy clergyman who was visiting him, and enlarging 
on the use of the talents committed to us, — "yes, — sir, 
very true ; God has given all of us our talents^ which must 
be diligently em^^loyed. I trust it has been my own case ; 
he has given me, I know, a talent for business, and I have a 
humble hope that I have not hidden it in a napkin. " " A 
word spoken in season, how good is it ! " " So let your 
light shine before men ! " 

The utter unconsciousness of the old miser that he had 
said anything ridiculous, must have put the gravity of the 
spiritual adviser to a severe test. 

I remember reading a clever epigram, I think . of Herder, 
on the man who " had hidden the single talent, " and " re- 
turned his lord's money;" it is very happy; but I cannot 
recall it. I only remember that it felicitously hits off the 
sordid temper of the man, and his rigorous sense of meum 
and tuum / for he takes care in unwrapping the talent to 
reclaim the — handkerchief! 

" Take that Is — thine, 
The handkerchief is — mine." 

Yours ever, 

K. E. II G. 

4* 



42 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

LETTER YIII. 

TO THE SAME. 

LONDON, Aug. 1839. 

My dear Mason, 

I am rejoiced to find that the fifty pounds' donation was 
a " spontaneous " act, and that your art had nothing to do 
with it. Wonders will never cease ; at least let us hoj)e so : 
this, the first of the series, is at all events a staggerer. But 
He who made the rock pour forth water to cheer the desert 
withal, can no doubt make even the heart of a miser, — the 
nether mill-stone is pumice-stone to it, — soft and tender. 

Certainly there is no one passion of man so enthralling as 
the love of money ; nor was it without a profound knowl- 
edge of the depths of the human heart, that those ominous 
words were spoken. " How hardly shall they that have 
riches ! " I have often endeavored to account to my- 
self, speculatively, for the peculiar intensity of this so child- 
ish a passion ; for money is really of no use the moment the 
miser gets hold of it. This curious idolater is content to 
deprive his god of the only attribute it possesses, and to live 
without the very things, the power of purchasing which is 
its solitary prerogative ! I have often, I say, speculated 
upon the folly, but I have never been able fully to satisfy 
myself. It is worse than the worship of the dead ^ there, 
in theory at least, the incense is offered not to the deserted 
shrine of the departed spirit, but to the spirit itself, ad 
mtliera latum / here it is to the mere mortal cerement of 
gold, which has been stripped of its only use, robbed of its 
only power ; it has been voluntarily thus divested, so that 
the fool actually kills his god, and then falls down and 
adores it. 

Is it that, as the love of gold itself is what moralists call 



ANECDOTE. 43 

a " secondary " passion, — a passion transferred from the 
object symbolized to the symbol itself, — men are permitted, 
as the instances of perverted desires and unnatural appe- 
tite, to punish themselves by more miserable dotage than 
ever the natural passion or appetite is likely to fall into ? 
Is it that, as all acquired tastes are stronger than natural 
ones, this follows the same law ? Is it that, as it is usually 
of slow growth, but of life-long continuance, the strength 
of habit is simply proportioned to the length of indulgence 
and the frequency of impression ? Is it that, as it gets 
stronger and stronger as other passions decay, it engrosses 
and monopolizes all the remaining energies of our nature to 
itself? Is it that, as it usually obtains its full dominion as 
our minds get feebler, there is less power in the declining 
faculties to resist and control it, and so the whole soul falls 
into a childish, all but idiotic, submission to it ? Or is its 
ascendency due to all or several of these things combined ? 
I know not ; but certainly of all the mysteries of our pitia- 
ble huihanity, none is more profound than is presented in 
the spectacle of a miser clothed in rags, dwelling m squalid 
want, depriving himself of the ordinary comforts of life, 
yet gloating with insane delight over that worthless gold, 
which he has first divested of all its activity, and then gives it 
its apotheosis ? Such a worshipper certainly makes a great 
sacrifice ; for he sacrifices himself and his god too, to the 
fervor of his adoration. 

I heard of a sad " night-scene " the other day, which 
would do as an accompaniment to your " morning-scene ! " 
Your old acquaintance's soul is, I hope, opening to the 
dawn, though it will be a late wintry morning, and a brief 
day at best. The soul of the unhappy mortal of whom I 
speak closed to the light in mid-day ; that is, he closed his 
own shutters, by which any man may make night when he 
pleases. It is a striking example of the power of riches, or 

2* 



44 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

fancied riches ; for here everything is by comparison. He 
was a young man in the receipt of a decent salary in some 
merchant's office, — just enough to provide him with every 
comfort and some luxuries ; but nothing to spare " worth 
saving," as we say. He was liberal to tlie full measure of 
his ability, and brought out his guinea to religious and 
benevolent objects as freely as any. He had a bequest from 
a distant relative, (some three or four thousand pounds, I 
believe,) suddenly left him. Now mark the sequel, and see 
what a fool human nature can make of itself My infor- 
mant tells me that a gentleman who had been in the habit 
of receiving this man's annual contribution to some phi- 
lanthroj^ic society, congratulated himself that, on his next 
visit to the happy legatee, he should probably get " first 
fruits," " thank offerings," and heaven knows what, besides 
the annual guinea ! A few months after the bequest he 
called, and to his surprise found the metamorphosed man 
would not give him a farthing. No representations of the 
astonished visitor could make the slightest impression. At 

last he said, " Why, Mr. , you always used to be most 

liberal, and I cannot account for your present mood at all. 
I thought that having, as I hear, come in for a considerable 
legacy, you would probably have doubled your subscription. 
" That," said the unhappy man, " is the very reason why I 
can give you nothing. While I was in the receipt merely 
of my salary, I could save nothing. But now that I have a 
larger sum, which I am not compelled to touch, and which 
will go on accumulating, every little I can add to it will 
telV* And from this he could not be beaten off. It is a 
very instructive anecdote, and might almost make one pray — 
only that it is, in most cases so very superfluous — that no 
wealthy friend may mention us in his will, lest he should be 
unwittingly consigning to us the poisoned robe of Nessus ! 

Ever yours faithfully, 

E. E. H. G. 



TO A RELATIVE IN INDLV, 45 



LETTER IX. 

TO HIS SISTEE, MES. EVANS, IN INDIA. 

London, Dec. 1838. 
My Dear Kate, 

At length comes a letter of gossip, that " savory " food, 
which, like Isaac's venison, every lady " loveth." I have 
at last, at your request, been down to our native village 
and traversed the " old scenes ; " nay, old no longer ; 
for had I been transported to some spot m your India, or 
woke up like Rip Van Winkle after a thirty years' sleep, I 
could hardly have been more bewildered. You talk of the 
" dear familiar spots so bright in memory ; " but I fancy 
you would hardly recognize them if you saw them. As to 
your request that I would send you a sketch or two, it is 
out of the question ; any chance picture in a book of travels, 
of some new " Troy " or " Jericho " rising in the far west, 
would be quite as Hke. 

If, then, as you say, the transcripts in your memory are 
vivid and bright, be pleased to keep them so, for that is all 
you are likely to get. You speak as if everything in " Old 
England " were exempt from the law of change ; as if its 
houses were fossil remains, its men and women petrifactions (a 
good many of them may be) ; its scenery stereotyped. Now, 
my dear, I want to tell you, that we are passing through a 
great social revolution which will change the face of this 
country more in the next fifty than it has been in the last 
three hundred years. 

It is hard to say what remote villages the huge network 
of our railways, when completed, will not embrace ; what 
towns the diversion of traffic may not leave, like stranded 
vessels, high and dry on the beach, to rot — no more to be 
touched by the refluent tide ; or what obscure hamlets 



46 THE GREYSON LETTERS 

may not be turned into busy marts of a new created 
commerce. 

Our native hamlet is just going through the process of 
decomposition / whether it will ever be reconstructed into 
something better, I know not. The great railway, of which 
you have heard, between London and Birmingham, and 
which is expected to be opened through its entire length 
next summer, passes straight by Berkhampstead, • — sweet 
Cowper's birthplace, — and steers through that little home- 
stead a few miles beyond, which is the birthplace of our 
less celebrated selves. It cuts the quaint garden in two, 
and has parted for ever the old house, which still stands in 
rickety desolation, from the summer house, which is tot- 
tering in still greater decrepitude on the other side of a 
huge embankment along which the railway passes. So 
there is an end of your dreams of my tasting once more the 
fruit of the ancient mulberry-tree, and of my sending you 
a honeysuckle, or rose or two, from the fragrant wreaths 
which used to mantle the porch. But I can send you a few 
cinders that have dropped from one of the " puffing mon- 
sters " that roar and rush in triumph through this scene of 
desolation, — if that will be of any solace to you. But I 
forget ; you can have no conception of these monsters. 
Well, then, imagine that sons and daughters of Gorgon and 
Briareus, Gog and Magog, have intermarried for some 
generations, and that a railway locomotive is a promising 
scion of the family. 

Just at the end of the little meadow, and by the copse 
where we used to watch the setting sun, is an interesting 
collection of staring red brick workmen's cottages, — back 
to back in admirable uniformity, — with a little interval of 
cabbage-garden between them, and displaying a charming 
vista, (but not so pervious to the sun as the old foliage,) 
of sheets, gowns, and petticoats flaunting in the breeze. 



TO A RELATIVE IX INDIA. 47 

At the end of the row, of course, there is a public house 
wilji an ambitious sign of the " Railway Tavern," whence 
I smelt fumes as I passed very unlike the scent of jasmine, 
and heard strains not much like those of your piano, my 
love, though they recalled it. 

From thence I wandered over the four fields into the 
village, which, though greatly metamorphosed, and bearing 
certain equivocal marks of " progress " and " civilization " 
in the shape of three beer shops and one little methodist 
chapel, was not so changed as to be beyond recognition. 

The little green pool by Farmer Bloomfield's, — (another 
occupant now dwells there, and has done so these fifteen 
years,) — was as verdant as ever ; and in it were dabbling 
some geese that might, for aught I know, have been lineal 
descendants of those that furnished forth our Michaelmas 
dinner thirty years ago : but who shall say ? It is certain 
they made much the same noise, and looked uncommonly 
like. 

I thence strolled to the little squab church and its quiet 
churchyard, which, except that the last looked rather more 
populous with silent inhabitants than in days of yore, seemed 
nearly unaltered. The well-remembered grassy mounds in 
the corner remain untouched, and the loved ones beneath 
still slumber peacefully there. It is a good thing the great 
railway did not require to pass through the churchyard, or, 
sure as fate, the monster would have done so without cere- 
mony or compunction, and hustled the poor skeletons to the 
right and left in premature resurrection. 

I spent some time in the churchyard spelling out the 
names of some of the old inhabitants of our early days, and 
beholding, with pleased surprise, from the (as usual) truth- 
ful epitaphs, that many of them were garnished and deco- 
rated with virtues of which, while they lived, I had not the 



48 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

smallest suspicion ; so artfully had Christian humility con- 
cealed their excellencies ! 

Superstition no longer deifies the dead, but affection an- 
gelizes them. For my part, I think if I were bedaubed and 
bedizened with one of the tawdry epitaj^hs I have some- 
times seen in a country churchyard, it would be enough to 
make me get up in the night and scratch it out. There was 
our old acquaintance, farmer Veesey's fat wife, who re- 
sembled, (as some one said of her like,) " a fillet of veal 
upon castors," decked out in a suit of virtues which might 
not have misbecome a seraph. Several others of our old 
acquaintances I found were such wives, mothers, neighbors, 
friends ; so charitable, gentle, forgiving! Surely the parson 
in our time must have had an easy time of it, an absolute 
sinecure with such a flock. 

It is really odd to see so much wickedness above ground, 
and so much goodness under it. Ah ! if they could but 
change places, what a pleasant world it would be ! Or 
rather, perhaps we ought to say, " Who can wonder, that 
so much iniquity is left among the living, when such cart- 
loads of all the cardinal and other virtues are thus yearly 
shovelled into the earth by the undertaker ? " Any way, 
however, it is a pleasant thing to find our old friends im- 
proved by keeping ; and looking better in their winding- 
sheets than ever they did in silks or satins. 

As I had a fine autumn day before me, I made across the 
country by Berkhampstead and Boxmoor to Church End, 
and the common beyond, where I passed so many " bitter- 
sweet," happy-miserable hours in my first school days, and 
recognized the very spot where, on a fine May evening, 
sprawling on the green sward, while my companions were 
at play at a little distance, I had, at eight or nine years of 
age, my first notion of — " Love," you will say, like a woman 
as you are. Pooh ! my dear ; pray do not put such thoughts 



TO A RELATIVE IN INDIA. 49 

into a child's head ; no, I was no more thinking of love than 
you, under the blazing sun of India, are thinking of a Christ- 
mas dinner of roast beef and plum pudding. I was thinking 
of something very different and of much more importance ; 
it was then that I had, if you oniist know, my first notion 
of the " Infinite." " There," you will say, " that will do ; 
pray do not trouble me w^ith any of the metaphysical stuff 
of which you used to be so fond." But, begging your par- 
don, madam, it will oiot do, for I consider the phenomenon 
a rather striking one. " And pray, then, what were your 
thoughts ? I imagine my deej^ly interested sister to ask. 
"Ah ! it is imagination," you reply, " for I feel no curiosity 
in the matter." I can hear you, my dear, at this distance, 
right across the equator, as plain as if you were at my 
elbow. You are not at all interested, you protest, in any 
such philosophic gibberish. Well, then, I will be brief. As 
I lay sprawling on my back, day-dreaming as I too often 
used to do, and do still, I saw the stars come gleaming out 
in the deep azure, one after another, and I said to myself, 
" Suppose I could fly up to that bright star ;" looking at 
one relatively nearj that is, not more than a few billions 
of millions of miles or so from me. — " What if I could fly 
up there ? " I thought within myself again. " Well, what 
then ? Suppose I could get to the little faint spark beyond 
that. Well, what then ? And then to the fainter, paler, 
twinkling light beyond ; still, w^iat then ? Should I here 
come to the end of the — Goodness gracious ! — end of 
\chat f If there is anything to end the Avorld, it must be 
still something which ends it, and therefore there cannot be 
any end ; " and so, at all events, ended the catechism ; and 
the notion dawned upon me that there was and must be an 
Infinite^ and that " Space" was one of its forms. I do not 
think I have advanced much beyond that point in my phi- 
losophy to this day ; I fancy all we know is about as much 

5 



50 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

as this — that there must be an Infinite — and that it is a 
contradiction to think otherwise ; that the mind has no pos- 
itive notion of it, otherwise the finite would not comprehend 
the Infinite, — a contradiction too ; and lastly, that the 
mode in which the notion is developed in iis, is by some 
such process of successive augmentation of magnitudes as 
that to which my boyish logic was invited on that May 
evening. So, if you ask, as you doubtless will, for a philos- 
ophy of the infinite — voila ! and in a form finite enough. 

La pliilosophle 

De I'Infini — 

C'est, dans ces petits mots, tout compris.* 

Have you "perpended" and "prehended" my words. 
" Not a whit," you will say ; " I really have not time to at- 
tend to any such nonsense ; I must go and look after the 
Captain's curry." Well, I acknowledge that I have been 
too brief, but I Avas obliged not to be " tedious ;'''' to wdiich 
I can imagine you saying, as the cruel Canning once said to 
a clerg-yman who gave the same reason for his brevity — 
" But you ivere tedious." Now do not say that I have put 
the saucy speech into your mouth ♦ I know beforehand that 
you will think some such thing ; for in truth, Kate, you are 
incorrigible. 

Well, then, to leave the Infinite. I saw on the Common 
the noble tree, a huge arm of which nearly crushed me when 
about nine years of age, as I was listening to the glorious 
music of its foliage, and that of its giant fellows on a stormy 
autumn day ; — the stream in which I was nearly drowned, 
at about the same aofe, and whence I was dracr^ed insensi- 
ble to the bank ; - — and the pool in wdiich I broke the ice, 

* For the benefit of the general reader, a translation of the foreign 
words and phrases oceurring in these pages has been furnished at the end 
of the volume. 



TO A RELATIVE IX INDIA. 51 

and sank in up to my neck — a foot or two further in, and 
there would have been an end of me, I suppose. As I re- 
called these narrow escapes, I felt strangely moved, dear 
Kate, by opposite emotions ; now filled with grateful love 
to that gracious Being who, unseen, "guided me in the 
slippery paths of youth," and " led me up to man ; " and 
now with something like repining, as I looked back on many 
a blotted, wasted page in my life, that the little history was 
not cut short with the first chapter. " It had been better," 
I muttered, " had the tree — the stream — the ice " — but 
better feelings prevailed, and I ended with very sincerely 
calling myself an ungrateful dog. " You know," I said to 
myself, " that like all the rest of your grumbling race, you 
deserve more kicks than halfpence, and yet you have re- 
ceived more halfpence than kicks ; be thankful that you have 
been spared so long, strive that the residue of your years 
may be more useful than the past, and remember " the bar- 
ren fig tree ! " And so I hope, dear Kate, that the ramble 
did me good. 

I wisli I could find a remedy for my lapses into doubt and 
despondency. They are, I often flatter myself, physical in 
their origin; so whispers indolence, and so whispers, per- 
haps, good sense. But it is a consolation I am slow to ap- 
ply, for it is rather dangerous to administer such opiate 
cataplasms to an inert will and feeble faith. They may go 
a great way to make a man contented not to strive against 
vincible infirmities. By the way, our men of science — a 
few that is, and a few philanthropists as great fools as they 
— are providing admirable p/i?/5ic«7 explanations of all moral 
evil. If a man put his hand into his neighbor's pocket, 
poor soul ! it is entirely the fault of a peculiar cerebral or- 
ganization ! So runs the cant. If he commits murder, he 
is an unfortunate victim of a morbid condition of the ner- 
vous system ! There is one comfort to be sure, that society 



52 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

will hano" him from a similar morbid condition of i7s nervous 
system ; if the one be necessitated to murder, so will the 
other be to hang. 

Thank you for the pretty little specimens of Indian coin ; 
the two or three sicca rupees, however, I should rather have 
had a " lac " of. But my tastes, my dear, are not so exclu- 
sively antiquarian or foreign as to be displeased with our 
own coins ; and if you can conveniently send a bushel or 
two of English sovereigns, I assure you they will range very 
well in my cabinet with the Indian specimens. 

Your promise to send your little Kate next year, fills me 
with delight ; her education shall be well cared for. As for 
your grave caution that I am not to spoil the little thing, I 
shall simply say, it is pretty well from a fond mother, and 
she too an Indian mother ! Why, my dear, I shall be only 
too thankful if I do not find the thing already done to my 
hands. Kiss the little pet for me. I long to hear her gab- 
ble her Hindostanee gibberish, and sing " Ruanah Keesti." 
My kind regards to the Captain, and tell him I hoj^e he will 
not forget his promise to send the MS. notes of his journey 
to the Himalayas. 

Believe me, my ever dear sister. 

Yours afiectionately, 

K. E. H. G. 



LETTER X. 

TO C. MASON, ESQ. 

London, Sept. 4, 1839. 
My Dear Mason, 

I have just been spending a few days Avitli our old rela- 
tion, John Wilmot. Although at the age of eighty he is as 
cheerful as a cricket : and with a voice by the way, nearly 



OLD AGE SOMETIMES BEAUTIFUL. 53 

as shrill. He eats heartily, sleeps soundly, is vivacious in 
manner and expression, and has that most lovely feature of 
age, sympathy with the young. He bears the " burden " 
of years cheerfully, and is studiously anxious not to impose 
a grain's weight on others, if it can be avoided. 

The spectacle of extreme old age is, generally, not pleas- 
ing, sometimes how supremely pitiable ! To see it hobbling 
and shuffling along on its three legs (according to the flible,) 
the third, by the way, the best of the three ; flummocking 
down, like a sack, into its easy chair of piled cushions — ut- 
tering the inanity which indicates that intellect is gone, but 
exhibiting a peevishness and fretfulness, which prove that 
passion is still alive ; who, as he sees this, with whatever 
compassion, would wish to be so compassionated ? Who, 
on such terms, would wish for longevity ? 

But our relation is another sort of person, and makes you 
feel that old age may be not only venerable but beautiful, 
and the object of reverence untinctured by compassion. 
The intellect, the emotions, the affections (the best of them,) 
all alive, — it is the passions and appetites only that are 
dead ; and who that is wise and has felt the plague of them, 
does not, with the aged Cephalus, in Plato's " Republic," 
account a serene freedom from their clamorous importuni- 
ties, a compensation for the loss of then* tumultuous plea- 
sures ? In John Wilmot humanity is not a mere ruin ; its 
grossness is refined and purged away, but that is all. He 
looks like some ancient edifice, only the more beautiful for 
the traces of antiquity. There is to me an indescribable 
charm in the contrast between his gray locks falling down 
his shoulders, and his still ruddy cheeks and sparkling eye. 
His whole face is a commentary on the conservative power 
of Virtue. How each placid and unfurrowed feature tells 
of moderate passions, temperance, and habitual self-control, 
benevolence, and, in a word, all healthful emotions ! The 

5* 



54: THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

change from youth, indeecT, is perceptible enough, but it is 
all legitimate — the soft chisellings of Time alone ; none of 
the rents, scars, and deep furrows which turbulent passions 
leave behind them. Such features are eloquent of goodness 
and its rewards. 

I cannot look on him without feeling the exceeding beau- 
ty of the expression of Solomon about "the hoary head 
found in the way of righteousness, being a crown of glory." 

You do not expect, perhaps, and hardly wish to be as old 
as he ; but if you are, may such be your age ! Your death 
can hardly fail to prove, as I doubt not his will — " Eu- 
thanasia." 

I was amused with the pertinacity with which he refuses 
all offers to do for hmi anything he can possibly do for him- 
self. He cannot bear to give trouble or seem an incumbrance. 
It may seem to some, an indication of a desire not to appear 
old. Yet this is not the case, for he talks freely of his be- 
ing the old man ; and never attempts anything he cannot 
do. It is a natural dislike to be a child — a baby — again. 
If you seek to assist him on such occasions, when he thinks 
he wants it not, there is, I noticed, a little impatience — the 
only times in which he ever shows it. And on such occa- 
sions he will have his own way. Your only plan is to busy 
yourself with something else, and seem not to notice him. 
He will then fumble for five minutes to2:ether to tie a shoe- 
string or button his great coat, but do it he will. To assist 
him is like assisting a stammerer ; Avho, you may observe, 
will never take your anticipations of the word he tries at 
but cannot pronounce, or any other you may suggest to 
him ; but will persist in hammering away at the refractory 
vocable, till he has mastered it, — at least, if you have pa- 
tience to wait for him, — if it takes him fortnight. 

My visit has prompted me to read again Cicero's " De 
Senectute,'.' which I had hardly looked into since I was at 



AN AMATEUR rHYSICIAN. 55 

school. How beautiful many parts of it appear now, to 
what they did then ! How very suj)erior to the greater 
part of his philosophical writings ! The tedious Tusculan 
Disputations are not to be compared with it, or with the 
" De Amicitia. 

Yours, &c., 

R. E. II. G. 



LETTER XI. 

TO THE SAME. 

London, Dec. 27, 1839. 
My Dear Friexd, 

I write to introduce to you my benevolent and intelli- 
gent friend Dr. S. R , a doctor of physic, but who has 

retired from i3ractice, except as an amateur, if I may be al- 
lowed so odd an expression. Yet is it very proi:>er ; like 
Johnson's soap-boiler, who, wearied of the tedium of his 
suburban " box," and drove into London to give his gratui- 
tous aid to his successor on " boiling days," Dr. R. has plea- 
sure in now and then giving his advice to a patient, — advice 
not the less welcome that it is without a fee. I will not 
say indeed, for I do not believe, that the benevolent hope 
of doing some good has no j^art, or even a little, in this 
promptness to resume his quondam profession. But I am 
confident that, even without any such stimulus, the effect 
of long habit, and the gratification of the professional taste^ 
would impel him to give his advice to any patient that 
asked it ; though pretty sure that he could do no good. 
He will gloat on a " beautiful case," and detail its symp- 
toms with rapture. ^NTow a "beautiful case," in the 
language of science, is a " case " that illustrates, in the 
most striking manner, some doctor's theory or some scien- 



56 THE GREYSON LETTERS 

tific princii:)le, quite irrespective of the amount of suffering 
involved, or the disastrous issue. The "beauty" of the 
case is quite independent of any such accidents, and is not 
at all impaired by them. 

A case may be much more " beautiful " which has been 
attended Avith the uttermost amount of anguish, and has 
terminated fitally, — jH'ovided it illustrates, with more than 
usual clearness, some pathological jDrinciple, and lias al- 
lowed the physician, all the way through, to see how Nature 
has been doing her tragical Avork — than a humdrum case, 
in which the j^atient has been merely restored to health ; 
probably by some obscure j^rocess of ignorant Dame Na- 
ture, which illustrates no " principle," and which that 
" empirical " lady has carried through without j)aying any 
attention to the physician's science at all. 

Dr. R gets quite eloquent and enthusiastic on a 

" beautiful case," as he calls it. " But, Doctor," you say, 
the " patient died ? " " Oh ! of course ; but what has that 
to do with it ? " says the Doctor. 

I sometimes tell him in jest that he would prefer seeing 
a patient die, provided he distinctly knew lioio^ than see 
him recover, and be unable to see the reason of it. He 
now and then reminds me of another enthusiast in the 
same profession, who, having j^rescribed an emetic to a pa- 
tient in bad, but not aj^parently desj)erate circumstances, 
called the next day and found him dead. The curious 
doctor solemnly asked if the emetic had oi^erated, just as 
if it was at all to the i3urpose. He was told it had ; 
he begged to see the contents of the stomach, if possible ; 
he Avas gratified ; he pronounced them very abominable, in 
very learned terms. " Well," said he, " dead or alive, it is 
a good thing tliat is off his stomach, any Avay." 

But you Avill find my friend full both of useful and en- 
tertaining knowledge ; and if you Avant advice for any of 



SOLUTIONS THAT ARE NONE. 57 

your patients, do not hesitate to avail yourself of his obso- 
lete diploma. 

Ever yours, 

E. E. H. G. 



LETTER XII. 

TO THE EEV. CHARLES ELLIS, B. D. 

London, Dec. 11, 1839. 
My Dear Friend, 

In the last statement of your letter I most entirely agree. 
Foolish attempts to get over any of the difficulties of that 
great mystery — the " Origin and Permission of Evil " — 
by insufficient solutions, are irritating to skepticism, rather 
than sedative. For example, look at that hypothesis, (not 
even plausible if Ave go at all below the surface,) which 
Deists often resort to by way of accounting for the stupen- 
dous pJiy steal evils of the universe, the " Sad Accident " 
column of the world's daily journal; — namely, the sup- 
posed inevitable effi^ct of the establishment of " general 
laws." It really throws no light whatever on the mystery. 
" If ' general laws ' be established," say our wise j^hiloso- 
phers, " it would be unreasonable to demand their suspen- 
sion in order to avoid occasional aeeidents ; if the 4aw of 
gravitation ' be in force, a man falling down a precij^ice will 
break his leg or his neck." To be sure, if he does fall 
down a precipice ; no one wants him to be suspended, like 
Mahomet's coffin, between heaven and earth. Certainly 
that were as unreasonable as the suspension of the " lav:>r 
But is the suspension either of the man or the law the only 
alternative? Miglit not the more "general" laws be so 
combined with the secondary laws which, as we see in fact, 



58 THE GREYSON LETTERS. * 

modify their effects, that they should never be otherwise 
than beneficial ? ISTay, are they not already so combined 
as to secure this end in nine hundred and ninety-nine cases 
out of every thousand ? and will any one pretend that not 
even Infinite Power and Wisdom could have j)revented 
the solitary thousandth case of accident also ? Is not the 
muscular system of animals, for example, so perfect that 
ten thousand people shall pass by a precijDitous road on a 
mountain side, and not even one of them fall, though if he 
does fall, he will doubtless be dashed to atoms ? Are not 
horses, and dogs, and asses, men, women, and children, 
wriggling in and out all day through the streets of London, 
and not half a dozen " accidents " in the four and twenty 
hours? Are not tens of thousands of fires blazing, and 
billions of sparks flying about there from morning to night, 
and yet is not a conflagration a comj^arative rarity? 
\Yould it be impossible for Omnii^otence, had it so pleased, 
to combine the general laws and the secondary laws in 
such a way that tliis infinitesimal residue of exceptional 
mischief should otot occur, without any suspension or re- 
moval of the more general laws, — seeing that it would 
only be doing in every case what is already done in the im- 
mense majority of cases? One would imagine, to hear 
some of these philosophers talk, that the said " general 
laws " can i:>rove their existence and vindicate their dignity 
only by jiunishing an occasional violation of them or pro- 
ducing a certain small amount of misery ; as if the law of 
gravitation could not be sufiiciently valued for its innumer- 
able beneficial and beautiful results unless the equally 
admirable and beautiful laws of muscular action failed now 
and then (though very rarely) to adapt themselve to it, 
and to counteract the evil consequences thereof; as though 
it could not be adequately estimated unless it now and 



SOLUTIONS THAT ARE NONE. 59 

then broke a leg or a neck, or sent a sensitive creature fly- 
ing though the air ! 

No ; say that the stupendous and varied miseries of our 
Avorld — stupendous, I mean absolutely considered, but re- 
ally not so if viewed in comparison with the good — have 
been allowed to enter it for reasons which we cannot com- 
l)rehend, but which are especially connected with man's 
moral condition and education, (and hardly anybody that 
is not an idiot will refuse to acknowledge, in tlie conscious- 
ness of his ignorance, that it may be so,) and then Faith, 
finding that Reason affirms its own valid grounds for be- 
lieving in the dominion of an Intelligent and Benevolent 
Ruler quite independent of all such difficulties, is able to 
confront, though it cannot vanquish them. But it irritates 
reason and faith too, (at least it does mine,) to be treated 
with solutions that are worse than none. 

I am the more surprised when I find, as I occasionally 
do, some Christians using the above argument of "general 
laws," as an answer to the difficulties in question, since they 
at least professedly believe in the possibility of a world in 
which, though there will doubtless be " general laws," those 
laws will as certainly be combined with such mental, moral, 
and physical conditions (whatever these last may be) of 
the inhabitants, that, as the ages of eternity roll round, 
there will be no " sad accidents " to mar the universal fe- 
licity. Men ought to conclude, on such principles as those 
just commented on, that Omnipotence cannot j^repare sucli 
a place, consequently there will be none ; that heaven itself 
Avill now and then exhibit a sera]:*!! who has lost his voice, 
or been lamed in the wing; or a young angel who has 
strayed into infinite space, and is lost to his disconsolate 
celestial kinsfolk, or broken his legs or his nose by stumb- 
ling on the treacherous smoothness of the jasper pavement ! 

Akin to such shallow and inadequate hypotheses as that 



60 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

of which I liave been speaking, is anotlier often insisted on 
by the Deist and the Christian, by way of illustrating the 
Benevolence of the Deity ! " How bountifully/' say they, 
" is prey provided for the various species of animals ! 
How exactly fitted is the entire organization of the lion 
or the shark for seizing, and killing, and devouiing his 
food ! How perfectly good is his appetite, and with what 
gout he swallows his dinner ! How is all about the sweet 
beast subservient to his happiness!" Yes; but what, in 
the meantime, is to be said for the Prey f Is that de- 
voured with as much relish as the other devours it ? 
Hudibras says — 

• " Surely the pleasure is as great 
In being cheated as to cheat " — 

but I think he would hardly have said — 

Surely the pleasure is as sweet 
In being eaten as to eat I 

I doubt not that the thing is all right, but I cannot accept 
reasoning Avhich thus refutes itself. 

I have even known Deists, and good Christian men, too, 
go further. 

Even in print., I have seen it stated, by way of diminish- 
ing the impression of general suffering, that as we know 
that the chase is a great delight of the beast who takes his 
prey, so we know not what delight there may be in being 
hunted down (and truly I think we do not know !) — We 
are told there may be a delicious excitement in the stag or 
the hare in the attempts to baffle his i^ursuers ! If so, 
surely he has the oddest ways of showing it. I shall next 
expect to hear a sentimental angler exj^atiate on the dear 
delight the little fishes perchance feel in getting hooked ! 
" Handle him," says old Isaac Walton, in giving directions 



SOLUTIONS THAT ARE NONE. 61 

for impaling a frog or worm on the hook, " handle him ten- 
derly, as though you loved him." " Nay," such a philo- 
sophic angler Avould reply, " I do love him and am proving 
it ; he likes to be thus transfixed. His wriggle is but a 
wriggle of delight." 

No ; I agree mth you that such arguments as these only 
irritate the mind that listens to them, as all inconclusive 
arguments are apt to do ; it is but special pleading for God, 
who, rely on it, does not need any such refinements, if, as 
Leibnitz says, we but knew all. " Shall we argue wickedly 
for God, and speak deceitfully for him ? " 

We do not know all, or rather we know next to nothing, 
and hence the difiiculty ; but we know enough, if we at- 
tend to it, not to allow ourselves to be baffled by what we do 
not know. From an immensity of proof, we may understand 
that intelligence and wisdom, and for the most part good- 
ness, are j^rodigally disj^layed over the whole of creation, 
and we may find the last confirmed still further by (what I 
must confess Z need) Revelation; and here we may rest, 
leavinof insoluble difficulties unsolved. As for those con- 
nected with the " Origin of Evil," having studied them 
enough to know that you cannot master them, leave them 
alone. As Lord Bacon says, though applying the words to 
another subject, "Give to Reason the things of Reason, 
and to Faith the things of Faith." 

If you will continue to revolve this mournful mystery, 
and to jield to its horrible fascination, you will darken and 
distress your mind. Experto crecle. And ever remember 
this, that, however sublime and momentous the theme 
of our meditations, if it really be beyond us, it is just as 
much a waste of our energies and our time to meddle with 
it, as to busy ourselves with the veriest trifle in existence. 
If you look ever so fixedly into utter darkness, it is but a 
waste of eyes, and you might as well keep them shut. I 

6 



62 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

would remind you of what some plain j^reacher once said : 
" Infinite," said he, "have been the disputes as to the origin 
of evil ; but the real question of importance is, not how 
we got i7ito it, but how we are to get out of it." 

Should we not be surj^rised at a man who, having tum- 
bled into a ditch, instead of scrambling out as fast as pos- 
sible, lay still in the mud, resolving in himself the question, 

— "I wonder how I got here ? " About as wise are many 

— be not you of the number — who have sj^ent no incon- 
siderable portion of their time and energies in resolving 
the question of the origin of " evil," without a thought 
of how they may evade its consequences. 

Ever yours^ 

E. E. H. G. 



LETTER XIII. 

TO C. MASOX, ESQ. 

London, Thursday night, Jan. 9, 1840. 
My Dear Friend, 

I have nothing in the world to say to you. I write 
simply because to-morrow is the day on which one may 
send one's thoughts five hundred miles for a penny ; so 
that the old saying of " a penny for your thoughts " is 
likely to be more frequently on our lips than exQw 

This letter is just to say "How d'ye clo?" and "I am 
well." If you can say "So am I," by way of reply, I shall 
consider it a cheap pennyworth. 

This Postal revolution is, indeed, glorious, and well worth 
any fifteen "political" ones. Nor have I the slightest fear 
of the revenue ultimately suiFering. In twenty years (my 
life for it !) the postal gains will be greater than ever. 

But will not cheap postage lead, think you, to a revolu- 



THE PENNY POSTAGE. 63 

tion in our epistolary style ? Shall we not become Spar- 
tans, and laconise f Crossed letters, I imagine, are now 
things of the past, and will henceforth exist only as curios- 
ities in museums. When one had to tax a friend ninepence 
or a shilling for a letter, it seemed but decency to let him 
have something for his money, in quantity at least, what- 
ever the quality. But now that the whole cost is one 
penny sterling, and that, too, paid by the writer, there will 
be a strong tendency to save time and trouble ; and so let- 
ters will dwindle — except love-letters, perhaps, which al- 
ways were, and always will be, I suppose, equally volumin- 
ous and incomprehensible — to the Lilliputian dimensions 
of the iDostage. 

Pleasant — will it not be ? — should the revolution lead 
to the imiversal adoption of the cm't commercial style. 
As thus — 

Dear Sir, 

Received yours of 10th ult., and note contents. Pleased 
to find that expressions of condolence on your wife's death 
approved ; would have enclosed some samples of " senti- 
ment," but that is a mere drug since the penny postage. 

Health here very indifierent ; deaths on the rise ; drugs 
firm ; doctors and undertakers looking up ; j^alls and j)lumes 
at a premium. 

But " matrimonial " also active, and produce market tol- 
erably brisk and lively. Mr. T. just presented with twins. 
Of " fat " infants, however, and of j)rime quality, a scanty 
supply at the present sickly season. Measles and scarlatina 

filTQ. 

In the last fortnight a glut of rain ; clouds dull and 
heavy, and go sloAvly ofl*; no sunshine at any price. Ther- 
mometer operating for the rise ; barometer for the fall. 

" Politics," a shade easier. During th6 recent election. 



64 THE GREY SON LETTERS. 

bribes clown as low as five pounds ; plumpers, 23 1 to 25 ; 
split votes at the usual quotations. 

Yours to command, 

Y. Z. 

Such may j^erhaps be the classic hierogljq^hic in which 
our wise sons may communicate with their friends, to the 
great saving, surely, of pens, ink, paper, j)ence, time, 
thought, feeling, heart, and brains ! 
Ever believe me, 

My dear friend. 

Yours affectionately, 

E. E. H. G. 



LETTER XIV. * 

TO ALFKED WEST, ESQ. 

London, March 10, 1840. 
My Dear West, 

I went to the office of Messrs. D , and saw the 

younger about your business. What a funny little man he 
is, — like a pea on a drum ! — I got from him the memo- 
randum you want, which I inclose ; but I got it with ten 
times the trouble I need have had. He is what they call a 
bustling man ; — and a most amusing variety of the species 
— if you do not happen to be in a huiTy. 

But stay ; I think if Bishop Earle had hai^joened to in- 
clude it in his quaint sketches, entitled " Microcosmogra- 
phy," he would have proceeded somewhat as follows : — 

A " bustling " man is, to a man of businessj what a mon- 
key is to a man. He is the shadoAV of despatch, or rather 
the echo thereof; for he maketh noise enough for an 
alarum. The quickness of a true man of business he imi- 
tateth excellently well : but neither his silence nor his 



A BUSTLING MAN. 65 

method, and it is to be noted that he is ever most vehe- 
ment about matters of no significance. He is always in 
such headlong haste to overtake the next minute, that he 
loseth half the minute in hand, and yet is full of indigna- 
tion and impatience at other people's slowness, and wasteth 
more time in reiterating his love of despatch than would 
suffice for doing a great deal of business. He never giveth 
you his quiet attention with a mind centred on what you 
are saying, but hears you with a restless eye and a perj^et- 
ual shifting of posture ; and is so eager to show his quick- 
ness, that he interrupteth you a dozen times, misunder- 
stands you as often, and ends by making you and himself 
lose twice as much time as was necessary. 

He cannot keep his tongue quiet any more than his 
hands or his feet, which are in perpetual motion ; and you 
cease to w^onder that he does not concentrate his mind on 
his business, since it is more than half employed in man- 
aging the motions and postures of his body. It is to 
be noted that he always performs the formalities and 
routine of business (for which only he is fit) with much 
energy; yet even these things he never does well. He 
writeth the merest note with an air ; useth the blotting- 
paper with a thump as if he would crush it ; foldeth it 
with a flourish; sealeth it with such eagerness that he 
burnetii his fingers, upsetteth the taper, and, in short, mak- 
eth noise and wind enough for twenty times the business. 
In his hurry he is continually mislaying what he wants, and 
then causeth worse confusion by turning out the whole 
contents of a drawer or a desk in finding it. If he comes 
to see you on business, he rusheth into tlie room, throweth 
down his hat and gloves, as if he had not time to place 
them anywhere, and, taking out his watch, expresseth his 
regret that he can give you only two minutes, while you 
think the two minutes too long. After he is gone, with a 

6* 



66 THE GREYSON LETTERS 

slam of the door that goes through you, he steppeth back 
three tunes to mention some thmgs he liad forgotten. If 
you go to see liim on business, he placeth you a chair 
with ostentatious haste, begs you will excuse him while he 
despatcheth two or three messengers on most urgent busi- 
ness, calls each of them back once or twice to give fresh 
instalments of his defective instructions ; and, having at 
last dismissed them, regretteth, as usual, that he hath only 
five minutes to spare, whereof he spendeth half in telliug 
you the distracting number and importance of his engage- 
ments. If he be to consult a ledger, the book is thrown 
on the desk with a thump as if he wished to break its back, 
and the leaves rustle to and fro like a wood in a storm. 
Meantime he overlooketh, Avhile he gabbles on, the very 
entries he wants to find, and sj^endeth twice the time he 
would if he had joroceeded more leisurely. In a word, 
everything is done with a bounce, and a thump, and an air, 
and a flourish, and sharp and eager motions, and j^erpetual 
volubility of tongue. His image is that of a blind beetle 
in the twilight, which with incessant hum, and drone, and 
buzz, fiieth blundering into the face of every one it chanc- 
eth to meet. Your true man of business — with silent des- 
patch, quickness without hurry, and method without noise 
— will do as much in an hour as a man of " bustle " will 
do in the twenty-four, and every bit of it twenty-four times 
as well. 

Such is a sketch of the peculiar species of the genus 
" bustling man " whom your letter sent me to consult for 
you. Consider, I beseech you, the trouble I have taken 
on your behalf, and either allow me a liberal commission 
as your agent — Avhich I am sure I well deserve — or re- 
pay me by a long letter. Recollect I have not heard from 
you, except the three shabby selfish lines which imposed 
this task upon me, for these three months. 



LANGUAGE OF EMOTIONS. 67 

Pray make my apologies to yom* neighbors (who, I pre- 
sume, have long since retm-necl from their " honeymoon," 
and possibly have had time enough by this for two or three 
little "family jangles "), for not having acknowledged their 
wedding-cards. The fact is, I get more weary of all such 
formalities, more and more negligent about them, and in- 
creasingly grudge the time, postage, and patience expended 
on them. Well, thank Heaven, in heaven they " neither 
marry or are given in marriage ; " and so, I suppose, we 
shall get rid of the nuisance of " wedding-cards " at any 
rate. As they also " die no more," we shall be free from 
the yet more odious ceremonial and formalities of funerals. 
In that world there will be no lawyers, for there will be no 
wi*ongs to be redressed, and no rights that need to be con- 
tested ; no physicians, for there will be no diseases to be 
cured, or aggravated ; no clergy, for all shall be Avell-taught 
and well-behaved ; and not least, there will be no under- 
takers ! Happy world, even if known only by negatives ! 

Ever yours truly, 

E. E. H. G. 



LETTEK XV. 

TO THE SAME. 

TOTTERIDGE, Herts, May 22, 1840. 

My DEAR West, 

Your friend's wild hysteric laugh of anguish at the immi- 
nent peril which one so dear to him was threatened, and his 
burst of joyful tears when it passed away, were both very 
natural ; and yet how paradoxical ! 

Your description put me on an old si^eculation in which 
I have sometimes indulged ; — whether if the appropriate 



68 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

symbols of joy and grief, pleasure and pain, and so of our 
other emotions, were all at once to change places ; if, for 
example, the loss of a dear friend were announced by a 
simper or a giggle, and a sudden accession of fortune by a 
groan or a sigh, we should ever learn by habit to regard 
these as the natural signs of emotion ; as natural as our 
present. 

You know that there are those who hold that the 
" beautiful " is icholly factitious ; that consequently the 
signs which express it are quite arbitrary in themselves, and 
derive their fancied power from pleasing associations alone ; 
that is, from associations with what the constitution of our 
nature makes the sources of happiness to us ; that, conse- 
quently, these signs have no specific propriety apart from 
such associations ; that if health and youth were always 
united with the comj^lexion of a corpse, and disease and 
pain with ruddy cheeks and sj^arkling eyes, our associations 
would soon change places ; Ave should grow enamoured of 
gray hairs and wrinkles, and horrified at vivacious features 
and blooming complexions. 

One cannot deny that it may be so ; I certainly must 
admit that association, in many cases, has great power to 
transform the once indifferent into the beautiful or the ugly ; 
nay, the beautiful into the ugly, and the ugly into the 
beautiful. Still, I cannot help fancying that there are limits 
to this power, and that there is a propriety in the very 
symbols (even if they might be reversed without j)ermanent 
confusion in our interpretation of them) by which the vari- 
ous emotions are, originally, either excited or expressed; 
a propriety arising out of the entire constitution and organ- 
ism of our nature. I cannot help fancying that not only 
are there limits to the magic power of association to alter 
or reverse them, but that even Avhen it can do it, the effect 
is never so perfect as when association acts in accordance 



LANGUAGE OF EMOTIONS. 69 

with certain signs, and does not counterwork them ; — that 
is, that the symbols are natural. 

If it be the case with the symbols by which the " beau- 
tiful" in objects is presented to us, it ought to be also in 
the symbols by which the emotion is expressed ; and, by 
parity of reason, with the symbols of all our other emotions. 
It is next to impossible to imagine, indeed, what w^ould be 
the effect if the emotions were to play a masquerade, and 
express themselves by the oj^posite symbols ; whether we 
could ever learn (not to interpret them, — that we certainly 
could do), but whether we could ever think them to be 
as appropriate as those we use now. That we could learn 
to interpret them is plain ; w^e do^ even the most arbitrary 
signs of emotion ; — as w^hen an oriental smites his breast, 
or rends his garments, or throws ashes on his head in deep 
grief; and, doubtless, if it became the fashion among us, in 
a similar case, to express our dejection by unbuttonmg one 
of our braces, taking off our stockings, or sw^allowing a 
dose of rhubarb, these actions would soon become full of 
grave significance, and be thought admirably adapted to 
alleviate calamity ! 

Wbat a pity that we cannot make a few^ experiments in 
this matter ! Yet it is plainly out of the question ; the 
above arbitrary signs, — who could attempt to bring into 
fashion, however admirably conceived ? Who could stand 
the lauo^hter such ludicrous sorrow would create ? And as 
to the inversion of the natural signs, it w^ould be still w^orse. 
The experimental pliilosopher who should laugh at a funeral 
or groan at a w^edding, w^ould be liable to be kicked out of 
the company. 

I confess I am sometimes staggered w^hen I see how as- 
tonishingly easy it often is to acco^nmodate the signs of 
emotion to the most opposite sources, and how nearly similar 
in many cases is the language of joy and sorrow, of plea- 



70 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

sure and pain, of hope and fear, and how frequent and rapid 
the interchange of smiles and tears. There are tears of joy, 
and smiles of sorrow, as well as tears of sorrow and smiles 
of joy ; — nay, they often both dwell at the same moment 
on the same face, and so blend in their appropriate, as well 
as their interchanged, expressions, that it is impossible to 
tell which is which, under the infinitely subtle combinations 
of emotion to which the mysterious heart of man is subject. 
How often, in such moods, do we see gleaming radiance, 
and passing shadows, and glittering tears, all cliasing each 
other, and melting into one another, — meeting and breaking, 
like the shifting sunshine and showers, the shadowy clouds 
and falling spangles of an April day ! Similarly, to a stranger, 
it is liard always to distinguish a blush of modesty from a 
blush of shame ; to say whether paleness be the effect of 
extreme fear or extreme rage ; whether a sigh, w^hich is 
equally the utterance of pleasure and pain, and often par- 
takes of both, come from the '' fountain of sweet water," 
or " bitter ; " whether a smile be a smile of melancholy or 
a smile of complacency, or a smile of that j^leasing sadness 
which is allied to both. Ujwn my word, as I think of these 
things I am half inclined to fancy that though the book of 
emotional expression be doubtless a very significant volume, 
it would be almost as intelligible if read upside down ! 

I was sitting at my solitary breakfast yesterday, when the 
servant came in with her arm bound uj) ; and, on asking 
her what was the matter, she told me with a giggle, that 
she had cut her wrist nearly to the bone, by the slii:»ping of 
a sharp knife. She ended her account ^Wth something like 
a laugh, — which at first appeared rather unseemly ; but on 
reflection, " Poor girl," said I, " the accident has made 
her hysterical this morning," I told her that she should 
have every care taken of her, and that her sister should 
stay with her till she was well. Her face immediately 



LANGUAGE OF EMOTIONS. 71 

clouded over, and she began to whimper her thanks. This 
seemed strange too ; " but," thought I, " the girl has a 
grateful heart, I see, and she cannot bear much this morn- 
ing." Yet one could hardly help thinking that her giggle 
and her whimper might just as well have changed places. 

A good woman, of whom I sometimes buy eggs, and 
with whom I sometimes have a gossip, came in shortly after, 
and told me, with a frequent application of her apron to 
her eyes, that she had just had a loving letter from her son, 
whom she had given over as one of the crew of the bark 
" Fair Susan," recently wrecked on the coast of North- 
umberland. He had, however, been unexpectedly taken 
up ; and she told me (fairly blubbering now) that she was 
daily expecting to be blessed with a sight of him. " What 
a strange thing is a mother's heart ! " said I to myself. " A 
looker-on might imagine that she Avas greatly disappointed 
at finding her ' Enfant Perdu ' turning up again. 

On going, further on in the day, to visit a cottage of a 
peasant in distress, I found things in so much worse case 
than I had anticipated, — the husband, a great hulking fel- 
low, out of work, the wife sick, two out of three children 
very ill with the measles, and the third lying dead, — that 
I was surprised into a much larger gratuity than I had 
thought of giving, and promised to send doctor and nurse 
into the bargain. The poor fellow, who had gazed at all 
this misery with the stolid eye of desperation, no sooner 
received the money I put into his hand, than he burst into 
a passion of tears ! How very odd ! yet in the whole 
" signal-book " of Nature was there any more natural way 
of expressing his joy ? 

Still I had my doubts about the feasibility of the meta- 
physical theory I above referred to, and they were con- 
firmed by a dream of last night. Hear it, and confess how 
much better philosophers we are in our sleeping than in our 



72 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

walking moments ; tliough, by the way, dreams — sleeping 
or waking — have always been an unfailing resource with 
philosophers ; I do not know what they would do without 
them. 

In my dream, I did actually, somehow, get into a world 
where all the signs of emotion wo see hero were reversed ; 
as for the effects — voila ! Methought a dear friend came 
in to inform me that his daughter was going to be married 
the next day ; and " very happily," as he said, with a long 
face and the voice of an undertaker. It seemed to me so 
ridiculous that I could not help laughing, on which he re- 
marked that he could not think why his intelligence should 
have caused me any chagrin ; and giggling himself, told me 
he was very sorry foi' it, deeply cut to the heart by my be- 
havior indeed, I immediately i)ut on a lugubrious face of 
sympathetic joy, and accepted, with as deep a sigh as I 
could fetch up, the invitation to be present at the wedding. 
I went accordingly, having put on a black suit, and crape 
round my hat, to grace the joyful occasion. 

Being too late, I met the merry procession in the streets, 
— dressed, of course, in deep mourning, looking very grave 
and solemn, and escorted by a band of music playing a tune 
about half as airy and quick as the " Old Hundredth," or 
the " Dead March in Saul." In short, it looked just like a 
funeral. When we returned home, however, the scene, 
methought, was not so utterly unlike a merely mortal wed- 
ding. Several were weeping indeed, and looking very dole- 
ful ; but then is it not just so in those April scenes in the 
waking world ? — where festivity is so curiously shadowed 
and checkered with a sort of " bitter sweet ? " — where 
handkerchiefs are often put up to fair eyes ; and the parting 
bride and the disconsolate mother hardly know whether to 
laugh or weep ? — where there is often, on the part of youn- 
ger sisters, a burst of sorrow, which calls for that comic 



LANGUAGE OF EMOTIONS. 73 

consolation a friend of mine addressed to a broken-hearted 
fair one on such an occasion, — " Not lost, but gone before !" 
In short, they are scenes in which a stranger would doubt 
whether congratulation or condolence was most significantly 
expressed by those half-radiant, half-tearful faces. 

But there could be no doubt about my theory, on going 
into a church ! Here I found the whole audience awaiting 
the commencement of the service with a light and riaoit ex- 
pression of devout levity, and a pious simper on every flice. 
The preacher skipped up the pulpit stairs, taking two or 
three steps at a time, and began the prayers with a down- 
right giggle, which no doubt proceeded from the dejDths of 
religious emotion. I laughed outright from a very different 
cause, — at the oddity of the spectacle, and was doubtless 
looked upon as a prodigy of pharisaic devotion for my well- 
timed hilarity. But suddenly, on recollecting where I was, 
I assumed a very grave countenance, not unmingled with 
indignation, and was forthwith simperingly reproved for 
my levity of manner by a scandalized old lady, who said, 
turning pale, that she was ashamed of my want of decorum 
in a place of worship ! In some confusion, I escaped from 
the church ; and was no sooner in the street than I encoun- 
tered a funeral procession, of which the model seemed to be 
taken from " David dancing before the Ark ! " The people 
who carried the coffin came along at a minuet pace, which 
I thought every moment would have brought the poor 
swaying corpse to the ground. A band played a lively an- 
them, which sounded about as funereal as "Begone dull 
care," or " Life let us cherish." The chief mourners giggled 
and laughed till tears really dropped down their cheeks 
(though I had difficulty in imagining them tears of sorrow), 
and jumped and capered in this new " Dance of Death " like 
mad. Perhaps you will think that the symbols of emotion 
might be quite as sincere, and hardly more inverted than 

7 



74 THE GREYSON LETTERS, 

those with which decorous hypocrites too often carry a dead 
friend to his last resting place in this waking world ; that is, 
with a joyous heart and a mourning countenance; and cer- 
tainly the farce in my dream would often come easier to our 
mutes and undertakers than the doleful comic masque in 
which they now perforin. 

However, the incongruity of the spectacle seemed so 
laughable that I awoke, and felt that, however association 
may modify and transform our conceptions of the beautiful, 
or make the language of the emotions transpose its symbols, 
there are limits to its power which neither time nor custom 
can transcend; and that though the constitution of human 
nature is very amenable to habit, habit can as little recon- 
cile us to an absolute houleverseinent of certain aboriginal 
principles of our mental constitution, as it can reconcile 
" eels " to the process of " skinning," which, according to 
the benevolent suggestion of the cook, is " nothing when 
they are used to it." 

Believe me, 

Ever yours faithfully, 

E. E. II. G. 

P. S. — I am living here in pleasant lodgings, and shall 
do so for two or three weeks. I have little to do but to 
scribble to my old friends, and you, as one of the oldest, are 
mdulged with a letter proportionably long. 



TO A VOLATILE YOUTH. 75 

LETTER XVI, 

TO M . 

ToTTERiDGE, May 29, 1810. 

My dear M , 

Your letter found me here, where I am staying for two 
or three weeks. I do not like your proposed new plan at 
all : better to 

. . . . " bear those Ills we have 

Than fly to others that we know not of" 

If you do not take heed, you will be lost to any useful 
purposes in life ; for the time is fast passing in which you 
will have either the power or the will to fix yourself to the 
steady pursuit of any profession. Your habit of volatile 
change will strengthen by every indulgence, till you will 
have energy for nothing ; and even if repentance comes, and 
perseverance as its fruit, it will come too late for successful 
efibrt. At four and twenty, and after so many changes of 
plan, your friends begin to look on your case with just 
anxiety. 

The simple fact is, you are under the dominion of your 
fancy. It alternately plays the tricks of the microscope and 
the telescope with you, according as the objects are near or 
remote. To the present it applies itself as a microscope ; 
and everything that is disagreeable there is magnified a 
thousandfold ; to the distant future it applies itself as a tel- 
escope ; and all the beautiful features of the smiling land- 
scape, — even the seeming peacefiil 3moke of the distant 
city does not ofiend you, — are brought mto view, without 
any of the annoyances, the noise, the turmoil, the ill odors, 
which, when you get into them, you will experience, — just 
as you Jiave found in scenes you have already tried. All is 



76 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

" silent as a jiicture," and as softened too. Cure yourself, 
I beseech you, of this boyish folly. 

As to your new project — what earthly reason have you 
to think you will like it better, or prosecute it with more 
success, than the old. Remember, you at first attached 
yourself to these with the same enthusiastic expectations. 
In addition to your predominant tendency to day-dreaming, 
you are, let me tell you, too impatient for success. It will 
not come without toil and perseverance, — let your choice 
of your profession be what it may. In the present case 
your entire hopes are built on inexperience ; you are confi- 
dent because you do not know the difiiculties and irksome- 
ness of what you fancy you will like so well. Let me teU 
you a story : the application I will leave to you. 

My sister, Mrs. Evans, once told me of a gallant young 
fellow, a lieutenant in India, who, in walking into Cal- 
cutta one evening, was vehemently appealed to by two 
ladies riding in a carriage. From certain spiral windings 
of their horses to the right and the left of the road, they 
suspected, either that the horses were drunk, or that their 
coachman was ; so, thinking the last the more likely suppo- 
sition of the two, they with difiiculty got him to stop, and 
appealed to our pedestrian in uniform as to whether he could 
undertake to drive them into Calcutta. ISTow ray young 
soldier knew no more of driving than he did of astrology ; 
but he was as gallant as he was gallant^ and no more 
thought of disobeying a lady (even though he should break 
her neck by compliance) than he would of disobeying his 
commanding officer, and would face any " breach," except 
a breach of politeness. So, mounting the box, he took the 
reins from the suspected coachman, and drove off with an 
air ; but before he had gone five hundred yards, this Phae- 
ton overset tJieir phaeton, and laid the ladies, the coachman, 
and himself, at the bottom of a muddy ditch. 



"MYSTERIES" OF PROVIDENCE OFTEN NONE. 77 

I fear a similar mishap for you, only I doubt whether 
your bed may be quite so soft. Be no longer the dupe of 
that faculty, which, in most of us, ought to have a strait- 
waistcoat on between sixteen and twenty-one, but generally 
begins to be a little more sober after that period : I mean 
the imagination. It is the most prodigious fortune-teller^ 
hut the worst prophet^ in the world. 

You ought now, at four and twenty, to have learned to 
distrust its promises ; to tone down its bright-colored vis- 
ions ; not to believe that every mirage in the desert is a de- 
licious lake, — or every " apple of Sodom " the genuine 
fruit of Paradise, till it turn to ashes in your mouth. Re- 
turn to your discarded profession, pursue it energetically, 
and you will yet do well. You have talent — opportunities 
— friends, — everything but steadfastness of soul. Get 
this, and you are made ; without it, you are lost. I wish 
you well for your father's sake, but no less for your own ; 
so forgive these words of honest freedom. N^ay, rather 
thank me, and praise me, for not keeping a treacherous 
silence. Your conscience must tell you that I can have no 
other motive for writing than the hope of doing you good. 

Believe me. 

Ever faithfully yours, 

E. E. II. G. 



LETTER XYII. 

TO THE EEV. C. ELLIS, B. D. 

pENTOxriLLE, Nov. 1840. 

My Dear Friexd, 

I do not half like your falling into that little bit of " cant " 

about that good man T. D . " His troubles," you say, 

" are an unaccountable mystery of Providence." There is 

7* 



78 THE GR]'.YSON LETTERS. 

nothing more unreasonable tlian the talk of what are often 
called " mysteries of Providence," if by that be meai^t, that 
they leave us in any doubt whatever as to the equity and 
justice of the Divine Government. The sufferings and ca- 
lamities which are often allowed to gather round excellent 
persons, are, in truth (as I will show you in five words,) no 
mysteries at all ; certainly not half so much so as the pros- 
perity of flaunting and triumphant wickedness. That there 
are great mysteries connected with the divine Government 
I admit ; so great, that no tool of reason, however fine its 
edge or hard its temper, can touch the adamant. Our only 
way of dealing with the objections thence derived, is by 
showing that there is yet stronger evidence for the existence 
of a sui^remely wise and intelUgent Ruler of the universe, 
than for admitting the conclusion to which such invincible 
objections would lead us, — that there is no such Kuler at 
all. These difticulties can only be met obliquely, and by an 
ad ahsurdicm argumentation. Such are the " origin of 
evil," and some of its consequences ; such the sufierings and 
death of the brute creation, and of innocent infancy. These 
problems, baffled reason in vain strives to solve, except in 
the way just mentioned ; and for any direct solution, remits 
us to the logic of faith and hope — not of syllogism or in- 
duction. 

But what are ordinarily called " mysteries of Providence," 
and about "which irreligious men, and sometimes religious 
men too, make such a hubbub, are none at all to me ; nor, 
I fancy, to you, (if you reflect,) in spite of that little bit of 
current " cant " for which I have ventured to rebuke you ; 
nay, I will dare to say, they can be no objection to any 
Theist in the world ; to none who profess to believe in a 
Divine Government of the universe at all. As to Atheists, 
they need not surely wonder at anything ; nor, of course, 
can they blame anybody for anything that may befall them. 



" MYSTERIES " OF PROVIDENCE OFTEN NONE. 79 

They might, on their theory, as well " bay the moon," or 
chide the winds for howUng, as profess to find anything un- 
accountable in blind chance or a blind necessity ; for of 
what, on any such hy[30thesis, can there be any account ? 
To them all must be "mystery;" and perhaps the greatest 
mystery of all ought to be, that the world jogs on as well 
as it does ! But to Theists, I say such things as you men- 
tion are no mysteries ; and if you ask for my proof, it is 
this : that I have never met with the man, nor have you, 
nor has any one else that I ever heard of, who would de- 
liberately lay his hand on his heart and say, " The dispen- 
sations of God have been such to me, that not only I 
cannot see the goodness and mercy of them all, — which 
may well be, — but I deny the justice of them. I do not 
mean that I do not see the connection between this or that 
trouble and some immediately j)receding conduct, — for 
this may also happen to anybody, — but I dare to say that, 
on the whole retrospect of my life, the conduct of God has 
been wijiist to me ; that I have on the whole suffered more 
than I deserved." I repeat, I have never knoAvn any man 
who has been willing to say any such thing ; to affirm, " If 
I were admitted to plead my own cause with God, I would 
accuse him of having given me, on the entire balance of 
my life, more evil than I have merited." Now I say that 
unless you can find such a man, there is, practically^ an end 
of " mysteries " in the case. That no man, with even that 
self-partiality which is the characteristic of us all, will de- 
liberately venture (I will except, if you like, half a dozen 
madmen in as many centuries) to accuse God of injustice, 
shows us that there is really no " mystery " in the matter ; 
— for where is the mystery, if, Avhatever the sufferings and 
calamities Avhicli befall us, each "man for himself is ready 
to affirm, "I have received less of evil than I have de- 
served ? " 



80 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

You may say, perhaps, " Yes, each man may say it for 
himself 'i but he finds it difiicult to see it in the case of oth- 
er s^ Exactly ; but that is tlie very source of the fallacy ; 
it is because we judge of others by the outside^ and of our- 
selves by the inside ; of them, by our eyes — by the very 
little — for it is little — that each man knows of his fel- 
lows' interior and far more important history ; and of our- 
selves, from our consciousness. 

This last alone must speak, and if it lets judgment go by 
default, by declining the challenge I have referred to, (as 
in each man it does,) it is sufficient to answer the objection 
of " mystery ! " You see in the i:>resent case, it is your 
friend Thomas ~D you are thinking of, and not your- 
self, Avhen you exj^ress yourself thus half re2)iningly. For 
aught I can see, you suffered just as " unaccountable things" 
ten years ago, and I lately ; and yet you and I were not at 
all more disj^osed, for ourselves to think our case " hard," as 
people say, than I dare say T. D is to judge his own so. 

You will say, perhaps, " But is it not rather an uncharita- 
ble thing, Avlien we see great and strangely accumulated cal- 
amities befalling any one, to suppose that there is some sj)e- 
cial concealed iniquity that calls for them ? " It would be, 
undoubtedly, most uncharitable thus to judge ; but neither is 
it necessary. It may be, (and I doubt not often is,) some 
concealed iniquity, of which the world susj^ected nothing, 
(for such cases do often come to light,) which is at the bot- 
tom of the matter ; but as the world knows nothing, the 
world should say nothing, no, nor even surmise anything ; 
there are plenty of other alternatives. It may be subtle 
evils, of which man, till better taught by discipline, thinks 
little, but which, in the estimate of God, may be of great 
moment, that require correction ; it may be spiritual, and 
not social or moral vices, which are thus chastised ; it may 
be, not flagrant acts, but habits of mind and feeling and 



"MYSTERIES" OF PROVIDENCE OFTEN NONE. 81 

temper, for which a man may not be thought much worse 
by his fellows, but which, unsubdued, may bar heaven's 
gates against him ; it may be religious apathy, ingratitude, 
thoughtlessness, which thus need rebuking ; the visitation 
may be not directly punitive at all, though not inequitable 
in relation to the man's entire conduct ; it may be designed 
as corrective of what is still evil in him, or as a means of 
developing nobler forms of good ; it may be for the mere 
pruning of a too florid and unfruitful virtue, which runs 
out into luxuriant foliage of talk and spiritual pride. But 
still, to return to my first assertion ; as the man himself 
does not accuse the justice of God, but avows that he be- 
lieves His proceedings equitable, you, without forming any 
h}^3othesis of the special reasons for them, ought to have 
done with " mysteries." It is not uncharitable to the man 
to suppose there is no injustice, when he declares there is 
none ; and as it apj^ears that each of us thinks the same in 
his own case, we are not uncharitable in thus adopting the 
man's own estimate of himself; for it seems, we think no 
worse of him than we do of ourselves ; and though we are 
commanded to " love our neighbors as ourselves," I know 
not where it is wi'itten that we are to love him better than 
ourselves. Excuse this long " prelection," on an expression 
which I am sure, on reflection, you will see the imj3ropriety 
of. To judge of God's proceedings towards any body on 
earth besides ourselves (so long as the window in each man's 
breast remains shut), is just as wise as to criticise the sentence 
of a judge, without knowing an}i;hing of the law or the 
evidence, or to pronounce on the prescriptions of a physi- 
cian without knowing either his science or the symptoms 
of the j^atient. Each man must judge for himself; and in 
that case, it seems each man gives a sentence for God ; and 
till you find a man who does 7iot<i l^t us cease to talk of the 
mysteries of Providence in such cases as those of T. D . 



82 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

If you say you mean nothing more than that the phenomena 
are unaccountable to you, that is very true ; only then you 
ought, in strictness, no more to speak about the mysteries 

of Providence than the mysteries of T. D . 

Yours ever faithfully, 

E. E. II. G. 



LETTER XVIII. 

TO C. MASOX, ESQ. 

Pextonville, London, Jan. 8, 1811. 
My Dear Mason, 

I am very sorry to hear that my young friend Edward 
exhibits such a love for the class of amusements you men- 
tion. Innocent they may be in themselves, as you say, and 
within certain Hmits they are ; but, pursued with avidity 
and recommended by indolence (to which they are wel- 
come and which they tend to feed), they ever lie on the 
fi'ontiers of vice, and a vacant mind easily crosses the line. 
Yet I doubt whether it will be wise to attempt to argue 
with him much, perhaps not at all, on the abstract impro- 
priety of his course. You, with thirty years more experi- 
ence of life and human nature on your shoulders, may 
know, and do know full well, that the very greenest and 
most innocent looking " by path meadow " in the Avorld, 
may lead, by little and little, to the most dreadful deflec- 
tions fi'om the " highroad to virtue and happiness ; while it 
may be quite impossible to show this to an inexperienced 
youth, not to say that if he does not see it, argument will 
but make him, in all probability, more obstinate, besides 
weakening parental authority. If he were only ten years 
of age this course might do ; but at eighteen or nineteen it 
is hardly practicable, and never wise. Take my advice ; 



TO C. MASON ESQ. 83 

never seem, at this comparatively harmless point, even to 
know of his gayety, but have him down into the country, 
and, as idleness seems to have been his bane, let plenty of 
emj^loyment be the antidote. As he is fond, you say, of 
his profession, excite in him emulation to excel, (which is 
easily done,) by stimulating him to exertion, and then 
heartily praising him for it. Give him all proper indul- 
gencies, but of a totally different cast, if possible, from 
those he has lately been prone to, and thus try what 
Chalmers calls the " exj^ulsive power of a new affection." 
You remember the coachman who said to the gentleman 
on the box, "Do you see that off leader there, sir?" "Yes, 
— what of him ? " " He always shies, sir, when he comes 
to that 'ere gate. I must give him something to tliinh 
on^ No sooner said, than up went the whirling thong, 
and came down full of its sting on the skittish leader's 
haunches. He had " something else to think on," no time 
for panic or affected panic, and flew past the gate like 
lightning. If we can but give youth, in time, " something 
else to think on," we may keep out of their minds, by 
preoccupation, more evil than we can ever directly expel. 
One of the essential properties of matter may be said to 
be also one of the essential properties of mincl^ — impen- 
etrability; it is as impossible that two thoughts can 
coexist in the same mind at the same time, as that two 
particles of matter can occupy the same space. I shall be 

anxious to hear again. 

Ever yours, 

E. E. H. G. 



84 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 



LETTER XIX. 

TO CAPTAIN EVANS, IN INDIA. 

Pentonville, "Wednesday, May 12, 1841. 
My dear Evans, 

.... So much for home gossip, of which Kate is so un- 
conscionably greedy. Now for a question I wish you could 
get answered for me. I have heard, but can hardly believe 
it, that large quantities of your Indian gods are the genu- 
ine workmanship of our own Christian manufaturers — 
and that large " assortments " of these divine deformities 
are regularly made up for exportation. What a comment 
on idolatry ! Gods made by the Infidel, and sold to the 
devout, for worship ! But we^ I think, are the worse of the 
two. We send out missionaries to reclaim the heathen 
from superstition, and then (that the missionaries, I pre- 
sume, may never lack employment), we manufacture deities 
for the said heathen, of the most approved pattern and the 
very best materials. If there are " firms " that thus deal in 
bronze, — metalic and otherwise, — and drive a gainful 
trade in gods, one would like to have a peep at some of 
their invoices. How droll they would read ! Fancy some 
of the items, or imagine advertisements running thus : " To 
the devout; a bargain! A miscellaneous assortment of 
gods of various sorts and sizes, — the lot to be disposed of 
cheap." " A splendid Brahma, best bronze, warranted to 
stand all weathers." " A Vishnoo, a little cracked in the 
head, and a flaw in the nose ; a proportionate reduction 
made." "A Seeva, gilt-lacquered, an extraordinary bar- 
gain." " A lot of damaged gods, warranted none the worse 
for worship, at a very low figure. K. B. The above 
worthy of the attention of any one about to form his god- 
establishment, or fit for a present to a Temple or Pan- 



ENGLISH GOD MANUFACTURERS. 85 

theon." " Messrs. Muck, and Co., agents for a celebrated 
English god-manufacturer, being about to quit the god-busi- 
ness, beg to call the attention of their devout customers to 
their unrivalled stock of Deities, now selling oif at extreme- 
ly low prices." — Perhaps it would be wise for our god- 
manufacturing smiths to issue a catalogue and advertise 
thus : " Messrs. Smith and Co., by si^ecial permission, god- 
makers to the Deities of India, beg to call the attention of 
the enlightened public of that religious continent to their 
catalogue of spick-and-span new divinities, of the most ap- 
proved patterns and finished workmanship, at the extraord- 
inarily low prices affixed. Messrs. S. and Co. venture to say 
that their gods will be found quite equal to any of the native 
manufacture, and fully as attentive to the prayers of their 
worshippers. Any gentleman or lady wishing to furnish a 
house with a proper assortment, will be met on the most lib- 
eral terms. Whole-sale god-buyers allowed a handsome 
discount." 

It is hard to imagine that condition of the human intel- 
lect which can reconcile it to Idolatry at all ; it is quite as 
hard to imagine how its votaries can accept gods manufac- 
tured by those who laugh at all such trumpery ! The gods 
themselves, it seems, graciously favor " free trade," and in- 
sist on no monopoly for their worship^^ers. Not only their 
devotees, but their enemies, may create these accommodat- 
ing deities in all their perfections. But perhaps the thing 
hardest of all to conceive, is the moral condition, not of 
the heathen, but of those so-called Christians, who, pro- 
fessing to laugh at and abhor all such idolatry, can pander 
to it for a little gain ; and while praying each* Sunday that 
God would be pleased to " confound all idols," can do their 
best to perpetuate them for a miserable 10 per cent. 

But it is not a solitary blot on our superior civilization. 
A few missionaries go to teach Savages purity of morals, 

8 



86 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

and thousands of profligates go along with them, who by 
rapacity, cunning, and cruelty, shall make the white man 
stink in the nostrils of a whole archipelago, and do in a 
year what an age of missionary instruction and effort can 
hardly repair. Surely our boasted European civilization 
has been a strangely inconsistent thing : a " fountain " that 
sends forth " sweet waters and bitter." A solitary Howard, 
once in many ages, consecrated his life to the captive and 
the broken-hearted ; and, contemporaneously, thousands of 
slove-traders bought and sold their living cargoes, at the 
price of sorrows millions of millions of times greater than 
ten thousand Howards ever soothed. A single Bartholo- 
mew Las Casas devotes himself to the championship of the 
poor Indians ; and Cortez and Pizarro, and a score of rapa- 
cious adventurers more, teach them that superior science 
means only superior wickedness. We boast of carrying to 
the savage the arts of life, and too often destroy life itself 
by other arts. The early settlers of America, says Knick- 
erbocker, taught the natives the use of many admirable 
medicines, and in order that they might not be blind to 
their obligations, nor think they had received things noth- 
ing worth, imj^oited at the same time the diseases for which 
they had furnished the infallible specifics ! 

Sometimes, when I think of such things, I am almost 
ready to ask whether our civilization has hitherto been a 
curse or a blessing to the world at large. To suppose the 
former, however, would be a false conclusion, I have no 
doubt. But as to those who abuse it, like our god-makers, 
one would think they were a sort of Manichaeans, and wor- 
shipped indifferently the good and evil principles, by turns 
now gave Ormuzd a lift, and now Arimanes. 

Civilization is, doubtless, a good thing and tends to good ; 
but not simply as civilization. It must be penetrated and 
animated by virtue and religion. It is a nonsensical notion 



EFFECTS OF CIVILIZATION. 87 

of many m the i)resent day, that civilization, superior 
knowledge, and science, onust do much, of themselves, to 
regenerate the world. Every day's experience in private 
life — where we so often see great knowledge wielded by 
as great wickedness, — and still more the page of history, 
ought to con\ince us that, like commerce, j^oetry, eloquence, 
the press, — CiAdlization (of which these indeed are but 
some of the forms) is in itself nearly indifferent to moral 
good and evil ; more naturally (as every thing else worth 
having), the ally of goodness, provided something else first 
produces that goodness ; but not necessarily. In itself it 
has no direct tendency to create virtue, and is as capable 
of being employed for the devil as for God. 

You will say, j^erhaps, like an old Indian as you are, that 
in India, whatever injuries abused civilization may have 
caused, these have been largely overbalanced by the bene- 
fits of its legitimate influence, and in this I quite agree. 
^N'ay — in that country, even our worst oppressions have 
been tolerable, compared with those inflicted by the native 
governments. But, though I doubt not you can prove it 
quite a paradise, pray make haste and come home, and 
bring Kate with you. I wish you could have, for only six 
months, the latter AaZ/*of the modest demand of that con- 
tented East Indian official who said that all he desired was 
summed up in the old English lamentation — " Alas and 

alack a-day ! " 

Yours ever, 

My dear Evans, 

R. E. H, G. 



88 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 



LETTER XX. 

TO 

London, Nov. 8, 1841. 
My dear Friend, 

I heartily congratulate you on the adjustment of your 
family differences. Jeremy Taylor says that the " returns 
of kindness are sweet," and never was a truer word. The 
sensations of "reconciliation" are indeed delicious; and it 
is well, i^erhaps, that j^eople do not fully appreciate the 
luxury, or they would be ready to quarrel for the pleasure 
of — making it up again ! 

I hope that will not be the case between you and your long 
estranged brother. Pomponius Atticus says, in the funeral 
oration for his mother, that he had never been reconciled 
to her — never having quarrelled with her all his days; 
may you and your brother, in that sense, die "unrecon- 
ciled," — never having quarrelled again ! 

I can imagine the expansion of heart with which you 
met after so long an alienation. I dare say each of you 
l^rotested, in exuberance of candor, (as is customary on 
such occasions,) that he alone was to blame, and that the 
other had been a paragon of all that was excellent and 
virtuous! I have been sometimes amused at the extreme 
reaction of humility and self oblivion which on these occa- 
sions is apt to transform our repentant selves into devils, 
and our opponents into angels. Heaven forgive us ! I fear 
that Truth in these cases has to pardon something to charity. 
"I can't think," says one, "howl could be such a fool as to 
lose my temper, my dear friend," when perhaps he would 
have been an angel if he had kept it. "It was ???y fault — 
mine entirely," says the other, with as little regard to truth. 
" Nay, don't say so," says the first, bent on proving himself 



DELIGHT^S OF RECONCILIATION. 89 

a villain, and " refusing to be comforted," if you attempt 
to show that he is oiot one. In vain ; each, in that mood 
of gushing tenderness, refuses to "extenuate aught" in 
himself, or to "set down aught" against the other "in 
malice." 

I remember once seeing two friends so vehemently pro- 
testing, in the ardor of returning love after a bitter quarrel, 
— each that the other was not in the wrong, that I almost 
began to fear lest they should quarrel again because neither 
v/ould believe the other to be such a rascal as each pro- 
claimed himself! 

Ah! well a-day! It is beautiful — it is comical; and for 
the rarity of the thing one may pardon it, since it is so sel- 
dom that in this way the heart gets the better of the 
head. 

In other ways, heaven knows, it has more questionable 
advantages ; in a thousand cases, it wheedles the poor head 
out of all its brains, as easily as a \\dfe gets on the blind 
side of her husband. 

I have often thought there is something very beautiful 
in the consolation Avhich, in the moment of reconciliation, 
Joseph addresses to those rapscallions, his brothers. "Now 
therefore," said he, " be not grieved, nor angry with your- 
selves, that ye sold me hither ; for God did send me before 
you to preserve life." Kind heart ! Apart from the fact 
that his soul " yearned over " his brothers, and that, there- 
fore, he spoke as he felt, this would have been a most un- 
conscionable apology for them. 

' Oh, fie!" I imagine some austere infidel saying, — such 
a stickler for a precise morality, when he looks into the 
Bible, and so lax when he examines any other book, — " do 
not say a word m excuse ; the prevarication of the Patri- 
arch is quite awful. To think that he should thus have 
trifled with Truth, and ' nail't wi' ScriptureJJ" But beg- 

8* 



90 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

ging your pardon, dear Mr. Infidel, it was no trifling with 
truth at all. Poor Josei^h spohe as he felt ; it were well if 
you always did. Overwhelmed with adoration at the 
thought of the all-controlling Wisdom which had thus sud- 
denly brought good out of evil, yearning with affection for 
his brethren, and feeling, to agony, their agony of shame 
and repentance, — he spoke out of the fulness of his heart, 
and I dare say, hardly " wist " what he said ; as, indeed, is 
exquisitely indicated in that beautifully natural, yet utterly 
irrelevant question which precedes, — " Doth my father yet 
live ? " — a fict of which he could have no doubts after his 
preceding interview's. And so, instead of an instance of 
lying, Mr. Infidel, you have what the Bible is everywhere 
presenting us with, — a profound trait and exact transcript 
of human nature. 

I have read somewhere, (is it not in one of our Essayists? 
— the Tattler perhaps, but I am not sure,) — of one who 
was so delighted to bring about reconciliations, that he 
used to make no scruple of robbing Truth to enrich Char- 
ity. If he found two neighbors estranged, and, as usual, 
sulky, he would go to them separately, and expatiate with 
mendacious unction on all the kind things which each had 
said of the other ; how i:>rofoundly each yearned for recon- 
ciliation, if he could but think the other would accept his 
advances ! " I am so grieved," he would say to one, " to 

hear that you and Mr. have quarrelled. I should 

never have thought it to hear what he was saying of you 
the other day ; what respect he felt for you, and how much 

he loved you! " " If I thought so ," of course would 

be the reply to this flattery ; " I am sure it was a very fool- 
ish misunderstanding; I dare say it was more my own 
fault than his — I Avish you would tell him so." Back, of 
course, the loving liar goes to the first, and declares how 
much his enemy mourns over the quarrel, and what very 



ANECDOTE. 91 

handsome things he has said. Their reconciliation, after 
such reciprocal compliments, becomes an easy task. Truly 
may it be said in this case that charity " never faileth." 

Your little niece is quite well, and thanks you for the 
pretty book. She is noAV six, and often amuses me by her 
na'ive remarks. I was endeavoring, the other day, like a 
wise moral instructor, to inculcate, from, the sage cat who 
sat on a chair washing herself with utmost diligence, a les- 
son of cleanliness; not that Mary particularly needs it, but 
out of the superfluity of suj^erior Avisdom, anxious to eni- 
l^loy any incident as a handle for a little moral prosing. 
" Look at the cat, Mary," said I ; " see how diligent she is 
to make herself look clean and handsome this morning." 
But the little i^uss — the human puss, I mean — taught me 
that parabolical instruction sometimes halts, and that ev- 
erything may be laid hold of by " two handles." " I don't 
think it is so very clean of her," said she — " to lick her 
own feet and then rub them over her face ! " 

She has already decided to her perfect satisfaction the 
subtle question of an immaterial princij)le in animals, — 
which has divided so many philosoj^hers ; for Avhen I asked 
her whether the cat had a " soul," she replied with great 
gravity — " The cat has a mind., but she has not got a souV^ 
So that, you see, she promises to be a great philosopher by 
the time she is out of her teens. 

Yours truly, 

E. E. H. G. 



92 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

LETTER XXI. 

TO EDWIN GEEYSON, ESQ. 

Pentonville, London, 

Friday, Feb. 11, 1842. 

My Dear Brother, 

Enclosed, I send young Tom a few lines, as you wished. 
Be pleased to expand a little those last hints about the use of 
"Yes," and "ISTo; — for, credit me, I fear the lad's gentle- 
ness of disposition and bashfulness of tongue more than 
anything else. ISlow these are in themselves, and rightly 
managed, admirable things ; and it is dismal beyond ex- 
pression that they should be used as " handles " whereby 
the devil may the better catch hold of the soul. It is to 
aiTest a bird by his wings ; — to imprison him by the very 
things that should enable him to soar upwards toward 
heaven. 

The litigious gentleman you inquire after, has lost his 
cause, after a long trial. The costs are considerable. He 
will not carry the matter further. He is something like 
the Jew in the reign of King John, from whom that tyrant 
demanded ten thousand marks, and for refusing to pay, 
condemned him to lose a tooth a day till he complied. 
The usurer held out till he had lost seven teeth, and then 
gave in. As an old author remarks, if he had given in at 
once, he would have had his money bags empty, but his 
jaws full, and if he had persevered, he might have had his 
money bags full, though his jaws were empty. As it was, 
both jaws and money bags were empty alike. It is much 

the same with Mr. S . 

Ever your loving Brother, 

R. E. n. G. 



COUNSELS TO A YOUTH. 93 

LETTER XXII. 

TO T. GEEYSOX. 

Feb. 11, 1842. 

My Dear Boy, 

You are now fifteen — have been inducted into a tail coat 
— and are about to " enter on life," — as your father expres- 
ses it ; and so he wants me to give you a little advice. He 
evidently feels in a great fright about you, — as most fath- 
ers do when their sons arrive at your age. And I fear I 
must add, that the generahty of them seldom feel any 
fright till then. They seem to think that their lads, till 
they summon them into the counting-house, or determine on 
their profession, are exclusively the mother's care ; and pro- 
vided she looks after them in childhood — keeps their join- 
afores clean — sends for the doctor if they are ailing — 
teaches them their catechism on Sunday, and desj^atches 
them with a correct inventory of their linen to school, the 
generality of fathers trouble themselves buf little about the 
matter. When their son's character is really /bn??ef? to all 
intents and purposes — nay, often so set that nothing can 
alter it, then these wise fathers begin to think what they 
are to do towards forming it, and, for the first time in their 
life, awake to their responsibility. 

But I find I am beginning to lecture fathers rather than 
children ; and, to speak truth, I should be guilty of a 
double error if I were to go on in this strain ; for your 
father is tiot one of these fathers, and if he were, it is you, 
not he, whom I am called upon to address. 

Yes, my boy, he has done his duty, not less than your 
mother. Your nurture has been careful throughout. Still 
he is evidently in no little perturbation about you ; not that 
he has observed anything ^vrong, or that gives him cause 



94 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

to doubt you — he assures me of the contrary ; but because 
he knows, my dear youth, what you know not — the dan- 
gers which meet every one who for the first time leaves 
the nest, — the father's eye, the mother's wing ; because he 
knows all the perils of a flight into this wide bleak world 
■ — the hawks in the air and the nets and the gins on the 
earth. 

Well, I can but repeat what you have already been 
taught, till experience give it a deeper meaning, and im- 
presses it as no other teaching can, — that " the fear of the 
Lord is the beginning of wisdom," and the '-'•love of the 
Lord" is the consummation of it. And if you have but 
these, as taught and exemplified to us by that gracious Sa- 
viour who came to make known to us the Father, and to 
lead us to Him, you are safe enough. Let the love and the 
fear of God be as wings to your soul; and then, to recur to 
the image which I used just now, you are safe from each 
" snare of the fowler," and from all the " powers of the air." 
And remember where the secret of all spiritual force to 
cope with the world and its temptations lies ; — " They 
that loctit on the Lord shall renew their strength — mount 
up as on eagles' wings." They shall dwell rather above the 
earth than U230n it — alight rather than abide here — soar, 
when they please, into mid heaven, and at last take their 
flight into heaven itself. 

How happy for you, if you early make choice of the " bet- 
ter part which will not be taken from you ! " To think that 
at fifteen, you will have secured the felicity of two worlds. 
Yes, — the felicity even of this, — as to all that most essen- 
tially constitutes it ; for " with a conscience void of oflence 
towards God and man," and in the hope of a better world 
when this has passed away, you will have loithin, however 
the tempest may bluster, and however dark may be the 
night, without^ the elements of a perpetual content ; you 



COUNSELS TO A YOUTH. 95 

"will only have to step within yourself, to find the fire bright 
and the hearth swept, and all the peaceful enjoyments of an 
inviolable home. 

On the other hand, — if you go wrong, it will be a tre- 
mendous aggravation of all your sorrows, that from child- 
hood you knew the " better way," and would not walk in 
it ; that you set out with your face to the " heavenly city," 
yet turned your back on its golden pinnacles, and marched 
obstinately into the land of shadows. The tears of repent- 
ance are ever bitter ; — yours, if they ever come when an 
evil heart has perverted knowledge and seared conscience, 
will be tears of molten lead ! But I will " hope better 
things " of you. May you never spend youth in that worst 
of speculations — laying up sorrows for age. 

As to practical rules of life, in your intercourse with the 
world, you know, like all the rest of us, more than enough 
to keep you straight, if you do but practise them. But if 
I may venture to drop a hint or two, I should, from what I 
have perceived of a certain tendency to bashful irresolution, 
lecture you against that. Believe me, it is a most danger- 
ous quality in youth, — for the devil is an impudent fellow, 
and he wins a thousand more by false shame than he does 
by finding them shameless. It has been said, and well said, 
that the great lesson to be taught youth is how to say 
" No ; " it is equally important to know how to say, " Yes." 
If when some tempter says of something he ridicules, but 
which you hold sacred or serious, — " Surely you do not be- 
lieve in that nonsense," — you have the boldness to say, 
" Yes^ I do ; " and if, when he says in the equally cajoling 
way, — " Come, you will go with us noAV, I know," — you 
can answer firmly, " No," when conscience bids ; — in short, 
if you learn when and how to say " Yes " and " No," you 
will not only have learned one of the most important lessons 
of life, but will have set up about you such a sturdy, prickly 



96 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

quickset hedge against temptations that hardly one of the 
devil's imps will think it worth while to scratch himself 
by trying to scramble through. 

Ever your affectionate uncle, 

E. E. H. G. 



LETTER XXIII. 

TO ALFEKD WEST, ESQ. 

Windermere, June, 1842. 
My dear Friend, 

It has been raining here at such a rate for the last four 
days, that if " Captain Noah," (as he is irreverently called 
in one of our old " Mysteries,") were on earth, he would 
certainly tliink it high time to set about the building of 
another ark. 

Can you procure for me, at a moderate price, Heyne's 
Homer — the nine volumes, I mean? By the way, this 
seems an odd question after such an exordium. So I must 
jnst stop a minute to explain to you the connection between 
" Captain Noah " and Heyne's Homer ; for though the con- 
nection maybe obvious to you, it is just possible it may not. 

I had put down my pen for a moment to contemplate the 
ceaseless down-pour with that despairing look which we 
generally cast to the heavens in such cases, when the rain 
itself, together with the mention of Noah, naturally led me 
back to the deluge — the deluge to the ark of that pnmeval 
navigator; and so just stepping in, to get out of the rain, I 
entered the cabin at that critical moment when Noah had 
oj^ened the cabin window to leeward, and had the raven on 
his fist, preparing for his flight. The thought of the raven 
naturally led to the thouglit of the dove, — the dove to 
those far less fortunate " Columbse " in Deucalion's deluge, 
whose nest, according to Horace, was so inconveniently vis- 



FREAKS OF ASSOCIATION. 97 

ited by the fishes ; this unaccountable freak of imagination 
entirely disorganized the whole train of my reverie, and 
sent me rambUng among the Roman classics ; the Roman 
classics, by what metaphysicians call either a suggestion of 
" resemblance," or a suggestion of " contrast," — let the 
metaphysicians, and, in their default, the critics, decide 
which, — led me to the Greek classics; these to their 
Coryphaeus, Homer, and to my long-coveted copy of 
Heyne. Procure it for me if you can, but let it be at a 
moderate price. 

The above devious course of thought is about as tortuous 
as that which Hobbes mentions as a proof of the odd freaks 
of association. He says that in a company which was occu- 
pied in discussing the tragedy of Charles the First's execu- 
tion, the good folks were startled by one of their number 
suddenly asking the value of a Roman denarius. It seems 
that, while they pursued their topic, this absent man had 
gone on a ramble of associations. The death of Charles had 
recalled the idea of the traitors who had a finger in it ; the 
traitors, Judas Iscariot ; Judas, the thirty pieces of silver ; 
and that, the value of the coin denarius ! 

On all this I am induced to make the origin3,l remark, 
that the faculty of association is certainly a very strange 
one. Like everything else on earth, it has its two handles ; 
its good and its bad sides ; its uses and abuses. If it be it- 
self the great auxiliary of memory, it as often puts to fliglit 
another ally of the same great faculty, attention; if it be 
able to intensify, often absolutely create, the beautiful, it can 
as suddenly destroy it by forcing on us some cruel capriccio 
of whimsical incongruity ; if it can strengthen and fortify 
virtue, it can perform the same friendly office for vice ; if it 
often suddenly hands us just what we want, or by an unex- 
pected turn brings our wearied thoughts to their journey's 
end, it as often presents us with ten thousand things that 

9 



98 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

we want not, or sends us out on an idle tour over three- 
fourths of the universe. 

The most casual mistake — the most innocent inadver- 
tence — nay, even the most appropriate illustration — shall 
send half an orator's audience, especially if it be a Christian 
congregation^ a million leagues from the subject of his dis- 
course. I remember a preacher once innocently but irrele- 
vantly indulging in some " illustrations " derived from " in- 
ductive and experimental philosophy." Those unlucky il- 
lustrations ruined the attention of as many hearers — to wit, 
of three friends and myself. The most amusing thing was 
to observe, that they had sent us all off by differefit routes 
of association — such is the activity of this versatile faculty. 
On comparing notes, we found one of us had no sooner heard 
the words, than he was transported in imagination to a lec- 
ture-rooni of the Royal Institution — peeped into two or 
three jars of chemicals — received a shock or tAvo from a 
new galvanic apparatus, — saw two or three young gentle- 
men cut a caper under the influence of the nitrous oxide, — 
and could not get back till the preacher uttered the words 
*' thirdly and lastly." The second instantly found himself 
deep in the first book of Bacon's " Novum Organum," and 
unconsciously illustrating the idola tribus. The third was 
sent instantly into the very midst of the mechanism of a new 
pump for which he was about to take out a patent, and got 
so entangled amongst levers, pistons, valves, and tubes, that 
he did not recover hunself till the benediction. For myself, 
the mention of inductive philosophy sent me to Newton ; 
Newton sent me on a long ramble through the planetary 
system — comets rushed by, and I went belter skelter on 
with them into the very thick of the fixed stars — the fixed 
stars led me up to heaven — heaven, by a very natural reac- 
tion, brought me back to my duties on earth; and I found my- 
self in church at my devotions again, just as the preacher was 



FREAKS OF ASSOCIATION. 99 

insisting on the duty of keeping our thoughts from wander- 
ing during religious ser^dce, 

Perhaps there was not one of the audience an inch nearer 
heaven for the illustrations. " The preacher's ' experiment ' 
was a failure," said one of my friends. "It was all naturally 
' induced ' by his * inductions,' " said a second. " After all, 
what has Christianity to do with * exiDcriraental philoso- 
phy ? ' " said the third. " Quite as much as we had," re- 
plied I, " or, for the matter of that, the preacher either." 

But is it not mortifying to think that a chance word, a 
passing absurdity, a little inadvertence, may, like a pebble 
thrown among a flock of pigeons, send half the minds of 
the audience lohir — iohirri7ig a thousand different ways ? 
Surely the faculty of association is one that a public speaker 
ought to be well acquainted with. 

I begin to think, from that last illustration, that Plato 
was right when he makes Socrates ludicrously compare the 
ideas in our minds to a flock of pigeons in a large pigeon- 
house ; they certainly go flying about with similar volatility, 
are as easily startled, and as difficult to catch. 

If anybody wants hay this year, he must, should this 
weather continue, *' fish for it," as Horace Walpole said. 

Yours truly, 

E. E. H. G. 



LETTER XXIV. 

TO THE S^OIE. 

Windermere, June, 1842. 
My dear Friend, 

* * * * So much in answer to your queries. For- 
give me that I did not reply yesterday ; but just as I was 
going to begin, my lodgings were visited by two ladies to 



100 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

solicit a subscription to some new " society " (or some 
" branch " of one) they are going to estabUsh in this neigh- 
borhood for a local and, no doubt, very humane object, 
though it appeared to me no more deserving of a separate 
" organization " than a thousand and one others. Nay, I 
fancy the end would be answered a thousand times better 
if every man that really desires it, would use his private 
influence and example to aid it, instead of ostentatiously 
setting up an " organization " to work it out secundum ar- 
tem. The waste of time and energy in canvassing and 
speechifying, in gadding, and talk, and gossip (to say noth- 
ing of the provocatives to vanity, etc.), occasioned by the 
needless multiplication of these modern modes of benevo- 
lence, is prodigious. A " society " against the formation 
of any oieedless societies would be an excellent thing, and 
would be sure to find me a subscriber. The principle of 
" Division of Labor," in these social forms, is run mad, and 
ought to be strait-waistcoated. 

Of course, all large objects, which really require confed- 
eracy, must have such organizations ; who doubts it ? But 
they should be as few as possible; and confined to objects 
which are too vast and comprehensive to disj^ense with them. 
This would economize time, money, agency, everything. 
But we now see societies formed, not only for all great 
objects, but for the most trivial local ones ; multiplied far 
beyond necessity, either by excessive subdivision of objects, 
or by want of consolidation when the objects are nearly 
identical ; all the purposes in view might just as well be 
secured by half the number. It is quite humiliating to 
think of the loss of time and patience, of breath, money, 
and oratory that all this entails. No sooner does some 
benevolent crotchet enter the mind of some philanthropic 
gentleman or lady, straightway a " committee " must be 
formed, and meetings — weekly, monthly, and annual — 



"SOCIETIES" AND "BRANCHES." 101 

held ; the post actively plied ; placards and reports printed ; 
circulars issued ; and, in short, all the usual machinery set 
in motion — to the injfinite plague of quiet souls like myself, 
and of multitudes who have much more important business to 
attend to, and cannot find time for it. Nor can it be concealed 
that the expense of these " organizations," if they multiply at 
the present rate, will, in due time, swallow up no small por- 
tion of the capital of benevolence. No wonder so man}^ of 
these " societies " languish, and that their whole history is 
little but a continued series of " appeals." 

Inspired by a noble ambition, Z think also of starting my 
own little association. Pray let me have a " branch " in 
your part of the country. I am not yet decided as to its 
object — but no matter ; there is no lack of them, for any 
one of " the ills flesh is heir to " may furnish a foundation. 
I think, however, the "wooden-legged" men have been 
strangely overlooked, and that I shall entitle my " organi- 
zation," " The poor Wooden-legged Men's Friend's Socie- 
ty " (it is well to have a long name), for providing them 
with that supplementary limb gratis. I delight myself 
with thinking what an imposing appearance my array of 
" wooden legs " will make at my " annual meeting,'' and 
with what clatter of emphasis they will knock their applause 
at eloquent periods by means of the timber toe. An array 
of the " two wooden-legged " might, methinks, grace the 
front of the platform — seated on rather high chairs to 
exhibit to the audience, at a properly conspicuous angle, the 
good results of the " organization." N. B. Contribu- 
tions received either in money or timber. 

I please myself also with the droll specimens of philan- 
thropy which (as is wont in other cases) will garnish my 
annual Report ; such as " an old bed-post " from one con- 
tributor, the proceeds of a " gold-headed cane " from 
another, or "six fathoms of well seasoned oak as a thank- 

9* 



102 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

offering for the giver's needing none of it," from a third. 
However, do not think in such items I intend any satire on 
any genuine acts of j^hilanthroj^y, however trivial: I am 
only laughing at the foolish vanity which too often leads 
men, instead of "giving with simplicity," — as the Apostle 
so beautifully expresses it — to temj^t the derision of the 
world by parading their benevolence in the odd forms in 
which it often greets us in print. . . 

Yours faithfully, 

E. E. H. G. 



LETTER XXV. 

TO ALFKED WEST, ESQ. 

Great Barr, Staffordshire, Aug. 1842. 
My dear Feiexd, 

I am sorry to find that you are so troubled with indiges- 
tion, that even the slightest irregularity is punished. Well ; 
you must comfort yourself with the thought that you are 
not likely to become a gourmand^ and that you need take 
no " pledge " to preserve your temperance ; though, as 
you have no temptations, that I know of, to be either glut- 
ton or drunkard, the security may seem to you rather super- 
fluous. I met the other day with an ej^igram in the Greek 
anthology, to the effect, that it would be a good thing if 
the " headache came before the drinking-bout instead of 
after it." Here it is : 

Et Tots ixe^ua-KS/xej/ois ^Kaffrrjs rifi^pas 

Thv oLKparou r]fjL(ai/ oiiSe cts eirivev 6.v ' 
NDy Se irp6T€p6y yc rod irovov ttju tjSov^v 
TlpoXafx^duoures iiaTepoufxev Taya^ov. 

Certainly with even less than that we should find the 
morals of mankind wonderfully improved ; I mean, if retri- 



COMPULSORY "VIRTUE." 103 

bution was but simidtaneous with transgression; — if, for 
example, that thing we call " conscience " were attached 
to one of the vertebra?, at the same time that it Avarned 
us, began to tug away at some exquisitely sensitive nerve. 
What alderman would gloat on venison if, after having 
taken as much as was good for him, conscience, the moment 
he sent up his plate for a superfluous slice, admonished him 
of his folly by a sudden fit of the colic, instead of a sleepy, 
dozy intimation that ten or twenty years hence, if he lived 
so long, he would repent it ; or if a liar, the moment his 
tongue began to wag, found his face blushing with St. An- 
thony's fire instead of the faint tints of shame ; or if a thief 
detected the incipient feeling of covetousness by a desperate 
contemporaneous twinge of gout in his great toe ; or if the 
hypocrite (as, according to Swedenborg's notion of " spirit- 
ual correspondencies," he is or ought to be) were told of 
his fault by a swinging paroxysm of toothache ! . . . 

The forms of nervous disease are endless, — the A'agaries 
of hypochondriasis infinite. Let me give you a droll in- 
stance. I have a friend Avho exactly illustrates the beneficial 
efiTect of that constitution of " conscience " just spoken of. 
Except that he is odd and hypochondriacal, and therefore 
perfectly miserable, he is one of the most enviable men I 
knoAv. He is eminently virtuous, temperate, gentle, com- 
passionate, kind-hearted, with all his appetites singularly 
under control. I was complimenting him a little the other 
day on his happy temperament, when I observed an expres- 
sion of nausea, as if he had taken a dose of tartar emetic. 
" My dear friend," said he, " I beg you will not give me 
pain ; and, in order to avoid it " (dropping his voice to a 
mysterious whisper, and looking round to see that no one 
was within hearing), " Know that the Adrtue on which you 
compliment me is, between ourselves, nothing but selfish- 
ness ; so never compliment me again, for it makes me 



104 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

wretched. My conscience — a morbid one if you will — 
has, somehow, got entangled with my nervous system, and 
I cannot think an evil thought without torture. If I see 
the hungry, and feel disposed to pass them unrelieved, I 
seem immediately seized with pangs of hunger myself; I 
liave no peace till I have satisfied my own stomach by fill- 
ing those of other people, and may thus be said to feed 
myself by other people's mouths. In the same manner, if 
an emotion of covetousness obtrudes itself, I have an imme- 
diate sensation in my throat and cliest just like that we feel 
when, in company, we have bolted a hot morsel, and sent it 
hissing down the throat, because we could neither put it out 
nor keep it in the mouth. If I have any feeling of disingen- 
uousness, that moment my too physical conscience warns 
me by a film over my eyes ; and if I were to tell a lie, I do 
believe she would strike me stone blind at once. If I feel 
any disposition to exceed the most moderate indulgence at 
table, I have a twinge in the great toe of the right foot, 
which would reconcile me to oatmeal porridge and pease- 
bannocks for a fortnight ; and if I am tempted to vanity^ 
as I was just now when you flattered me so agreeably, I 
feel qualms at the stomach as if I had taken an emetic. In 
short, between ourselves, my virtue, as you call it, is all 
mere deception, — disguised selfishness. I wonder whether 
any one has ever been similarly afllicted ! ' 

" Afilicted ! " said I, laughing ; " I wish all mankind were 
so afilicted. I wish your disease were contagious, and that 
you could infect the world ; or bite us all round like a mad 
dog, and inflict on us a moral hydro-phobia I " 

" Ah ! " said he, with a melancholy air, " do not say so ; 
I am perfectly miserable. For what can be more wretched 
than involuntary virtue ? — to have seeming benevolence, 
and feel it is all selfishness ? How I sigh," he continued, 
whimsically, "for the power to do any one good thing 



COMPULSORY "VIRTUE." 105 

imconstrained ! — and, alas! how shall I ever be sure that 
I am in a condition of confirmed virtue while necessity 
thus backs conscience!" Was he (for he was a very 
modest man) laughing at me all this time, and, as usual 
with such men, depreciating his own excellences, and 
guarding against unwelcome flatteries ? Or was it really 
one of the infinite freaks which nerves out of tune v/ill 
play a hj^DOchondriacal patient ? 

Whether it were so or not, the last observation recon- 
ciled me to the ordinary condition of our probation. Yes, 
thought I, as I took my leave, — forcing my features, as well 
as I could, to sym2:)athize with the expression of his lugubri- 
ous virtue, — it would be indeed sad, if we were never 
sure that we should act as we ought, when not under an 
impossibility of acting otherwise; and this consideration 
sufficiently vindicates our present condition of proba- 
tion, if we are to be made really and indefectibly virtuous; 
self-poised by active vital forces from within, not kept 
upright by painful bands and ligatures ; by right motives, 
not by material springs and pulleys ; which last would 
reduce us to a sort of Punch-and-Judy automata of virtue. 

Nevertheless, something may be learned from ray friend's 
dix)ll experiences. In a somewhat similar condition ought 
virtue to end^ though not so to begin ; in a sensitiveness to 
conscience as keen as sensation, but moral, not mechanical, 
— and the reward, not the foundation of Adrtue. Happy 
is it Avhen the Christian has so long practised the pre- 
cepts of his Master that he feels that the wants of others 
trouble him nearly as much as his own ; — till he cannot 
help " weeping with those who weep, and rejoicing mth 
those who rejoice ;" — " till he cannot say to the hungry and 
thirsty, the cold and naked, " Be ye warmed and filled," 
and do nothing more ; — till, like my poor whimsical friend, 
he must eat by proxy, and till as it were, his stomach by 



106 THE GREYSON LETTERS 

Other people's mouths ! Sensation cannot form virtue, but 
virtue should lead to emotions almost as vivid without 
being as painful. 

Query ; — seriously and soberly, and without any talk of 
nervous necessitation, — how much of the virtue of the 
world is owing to similar non-virtuous motives ? How 
often is that which seems benevolence, only a form of self- 
ishness ? " Always," say some of our philosophers ; 
"charitable folks are uneasy if they refrain, and so they 
gratify themselves by giving ! " Delightful theory. Master 
Hobbes ! Then this virtue is on a par with that of my 
good hyi^ochondriac, whose modesty is kept alive by 
nausea, and whose comj^assion is generated by the colic ! 
Perhaps it may be said, " Well ; what is the difference to 
the world ? Who can distinguish between the most refined 
selfishness and the most refined benevolence, since the for- 
mer, if it really calculate its own interests, will produce 
just the same effects as the latter?" Exactly the same, I 
believe ; so that a world of truly calculating Ej^icureans 
would do just the same things as a world of virtuous men. 
Yet somehow, dear Epicureans, Ave feel that two acts are 
toto coelo different when the sources of the said acts are 
different ; — as different as the blush which is called up by 
modesty from that erubescence which is the effect of a 
blister. 

I am afraid that all this excellent disquisition will hardly 
reconcile you to your dyspepsia. Wishing that you may 
soon be so rid of it that you need not doubt whether your 
abstinence be involuntary or your prudence comj)ulsory, 
believe me, 

Ever, my dear Friend, 

Yours affectionately, 

R. E. II. G. 



" STRIKES." 107 

LETTER XXVI. 

TO THE SAME. 

Great Bare, Sept. 1S42. 
My dear West, 

I trust we are at leno-th comiiiQ^ to the end of that for- 
midable " strike " among the colliers, which has kept this 
part of the country in such commotion during the past few 
Aveeks. Poor fellows ! it makes one almost despair of ever 
rescuing them from the tyranny of their own follies. One 
would have thought that the experiments already made 
must have convinced them that " strikes," injurious to all, 
must be chiefly injurious to themselves; that it is just 
" cutting off the nose to be revenged on the face," as the 
proverb says. Here is a million or more of wages lost to 
themselves and their families; the little hoards which 
ought to have been a sacred deposit for old age or a day 
of adversity, exhausted ; the community at large subjected 
to great loss and anxiety ; the habits of thousands amongst 
tlie artisans themselves dee2)ly, and in many cases incurably, 
injured; and nothing in the world to show for it, except a 
few Aveeks of frenzied excitement and ruinous idleness. The 
only peojDle benefited are the keepers of beer-shops, and 
those fools or knaves (for one or other they must be) who 
seduce the poor creatures into the notion that " strikes " 
are wise things. As for the leaders, a " strike " is, of course, 
for a month or two, a fool's paradise; they spout and 
speechify — they form "committees" — they preside over 
them — they travel gratis — they assume state — they are 
agreeably inflated (even next door to bursting) with the 
fumes of conceit and self-importance. Really, when one 
considers how, on these occasions, the poor folks are led 
by the nose ; how plain it is, that come what come will of 



108 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

a, strike, and be the j^rovocation to it what it will, the 
laborers themselves must be the chief losers, and yet how 
slow they are to learn truth so obvious, it almost makes 
one despair. But you, I know, do not despair ; neither in 
truth do I, though I have not the faith which some of our 
modern savans and reformers profess in that infallible 
" sj^ecific " — knowledge ! " Knowdedge is power " — they 
are eternally chanting. Why, aye ; and so is ignorance, — 
as our strike-demagogues agreeably find ; indeed, I fear, if 
w^e consult history, that we shall find, so far as mere power 
goes, that great events have depended for their possibility 
quite as much on the ignorance of men in general as on the 
knowledge of those who have j^ractised ujjon it ; not to 
say that half the great things men have accomplished would 
have been unattemj^ted, if a happy ignorance had not 
shrouded, at the commencement, the tremendous obstacles 
to be encountered. " INTaturalists have observed," says 
South, " that blindness is a very great help and instigation 
to boldness. And amongst men, as ignorance is commonly 
said to be the mother of devotion, so in account of the 
birth and descent of confidence too ... he who makes 
ignorance the mother of this also, reckons its pedigree by 
the surer side." 

Knowledge, I grant, is a more respectable source of 
power than ignorance ; but still, whether it be a beneficial 
power depends on a variety of conditions with which it has 
no essential connection in the world. 3Iere enlightenment 
is as little capable of subduing a refractory will and selfish 
passions, as ignorance ; and surely the history of the world, 
— of unscrupulous ambition and crooked policy, — suftice 
to show that intellect and knowledge are in themselves in- 
struments merely, and are just as ready to serve wrong as 
right — villany as virtue. I should as little hope by mere 
knowledge to make a man act aright, as to get incendiary 



ESTIMATE OF "KNOWLEDGE." 109 

"Hodge" (as some one has said), just as he is about to 
stick his torcli into a wheat-stack, to forego his enhght- 
ened j^urpose by reading to him the treatise on " Heat " 
out of the Library of Useful Knowledge, and showing him 
that, by the laws of tlie communication of " caloric," the 
said wheat-stack would first " expand " and then inconven- 
iently "contract" under the action of that mysterious 
element. 

Mere " political " knowledge, however sound, will effect 
the object just as little. Indeed, Hodge, ignorant as he 
may be, has quite light enough, before kindling his confla- 
gration, to see by. What is wanted is n t7rdnin(/ that shall 
operate on habit ; a training^ religious and moral as well 
as intellectual ; that alone will do the business. 

If it be said that the schooling^ by which knowledge is 
imparted, will do good, — that I admit most willingly; any 
decently managed school is, in that point of view, beyond 
all price ; but then, though the giving of the hioidedge is 
the avowed object, the great benefit reaped is amoral one; 
it is the effect produced in the very process itself of acqui- 
sition that constitutes the chief value of schooling ; it is 
because industry, perseverance, j^atience, punctuality, ve- 
racity, honesty, and so on, are practically taught in the 
course of this school discipline; it is because it involves 
the right employment of time, and the exclusion of temp- 
tation. 

When right habits^ indeed, have been formed, then the 
knowledge imparted during their formation becomes inval- 
uable, and an instrument fit to be profitably used ; but, in 
itself, it is as liable to moral abuse as ignorance. If (to 
use a Socratic figure) you could i^our all this knowledge into 
a lad's mind " as from a ^-essel," at once, and without the 
moral process of schooling, it would as little follow tliat it 
would be rightly used, or prove beneficial (though a " pow- 

10 



110 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

er " it would be), as the gifts of genius, which, we know 
familiarly enough, are no infallible passj^ort to virtue. It 
is just the same with mere knowledge. Neither capacity 
nor knowledge have, in themselves, any reference to virtue, 
any more than anything else that is merely instrumental, 
and that may be, like these, used or abused. 

In the meantime, it is hard to say how long it will be 
before our artisans and mechanics will learn j^ractical wis- 
dom, since exjjerience itself has so often failed to teach it. 
I fear that thousands of families, in the present case, will 
find the table of " Dry Measure " in Bonnycastle utterly 
wrong, and that a " strike " is anything but equal to " two 
bushels," while, not " twenty strikes," but " one," will prove 

a "load" of intolerable misery ! 

Ever yours faithfully, 

R. E. H. G. 



LETTER XXYII. 

TO THE SAME. 

Leicester, Dec. 19, 1842. 
My dear West, 

I met last night, at the house of a friend in this place, 
one who knew the celebrated Robert Hall. Among other 
things, he told me he had heard that, when a student at 
Bristol, Robert had been brought before the College au- 
thorities for being present at a prize-fight ! He defended 
liimself half in jest and half in earnest, and to the great 
liorror of the square-toes, confessed the fact, but denied 
any fault ; on the contrary, contended that a prize-fight 
was a very instructive sight for a youth to witness ! One 
can imagine the consternation of the seniors, while perhaps 
the young scapegrace insisted that it was a fine exhibition 



HUMAN PUGNACITY. Ill 

of vigilance, patience, and fortitude ; as such, eminently 
desirable for a Christian, and most desirable of all for a 
Christian minister to gaze upon ; that Paul himself had 
evidently been at many a prize-fight, as shown by his fond- 
ness for the imagery derived fi-om it ; that it was also a 
most melancholy exhibition of human depravity and corrup- 
tion, and therefore full of solemn and tender suggestions 
to one whose business it would be to rebuke and correct 
iniquity ; and in short (for Robert was not the lad in those 
days to halt at a half paradox), that it was a singularly in- 
structive and monitory spectacle for young ministers of the 
Gospel ! 

There is certainly something very attractive in a fight of 
any kind, let us say what we will. It was only the other day 
that I felt this (shall I confess it ?), when I saw two little 
imps pitching into one another with much good-will — that 
is, ill-will — in the street. Out of regard for the pubhc 
peace, or to prevent some member of the " Peace Society," 
should any such one come along, from knocking their 
heads together by way of teaching them to abstain from 
all violence, I magnanimously " struck up " their swords — 
I mean, their fists — with my umbrella, looked awful, and 
said solemnly, "Sirs, ye are brethren ; Avhy do ye wrong one 
another ? " Yet, methinks, I coitld have stayed and seen a 
round or two with much comfort and edification. " After 
all," thought I, as I went along somewhat uplifted and 
vainglorious, " how do I know that I have not impeded 
justice, and given indemnity to the wrong doer? How do 
I know that I have saved weak innocence from tyrannous 
strength ? Nay, how do I know, (on which ever side lay 
justice or injustice,) I have really done anj'thing?" And 
this last, probably, was the coiTcct view; for, as soon as 
my back was turned, the great suit most likely proceeded 
to its ordinary arbitration, as if no such potent mediator had 



112 THE GREYSON LETTEPwS. 

appeared. It was just like many, more important, actions ; 
whetlicr our interference does good or hann, we know 
not ; or, for the matter of that, whether it has any effect at 
all. 

You remember the feeling, I dare say, with which, at 
school, the symptoms of a " fight " were hailed. "A ring, a 
ring," shouted the amiable bystanders, ignorant of the cause 
of the quarrel, and afraid only of its being too early accom- 
modated. Certainly the love of a contest, of seeing energy 
and passion exhibited, must be strong in our pugnacious 
race ; for whether it be a fight between a matador and his 
brute antagonist, or of two knights at a tourney, or an in- 
tellectual combat between acute and accomplished minds, 
it seems to be witnessed with much the same eagerness by 
the sjjectators as the fights of our school-days by us. Too 
often men feel as little regard to the justice of the cause as 
we did, when we watched, perhajis fomented, the first happy 
symptoms of a quarrel; trembling lest a little reasonable 
diplomacy should rob us of our treat ! In that case we felt 
as much defi'auded as the servant girl whose mistress had 
given her a holiday — to see an execution. She came back 
in tears, and her mistress was needlessly afraid that the 
sorrows of the sj^ectacle had been too much for her sym- 
pathetic nerves. The lady was never more mistaken. 
"Oh, ma'am," sobbed the girl, "the man Avas not hung after 
all!" 

What would you not have given to see the young scape- 
graces of Athens who assembled round Socrates, and lis- 
tened to his disputes with the Sophist tribe ? It would have 
been almost as interestinof to watch their countenances as 
those of the chief combatants. How few amongst them 
should we have found fairly and ingenuously awaiting 
the issue of the investigation ! How few cared an 
obolus about the truth ! How few were willing to adopt 



LANGUAGE OF EMOTIONS. 113 

the practical teaching of the great sage they admired! 
Yet who can question that the delight with which these 
subtle youths watched the process by which the redoubted 
athlete of logic cast to the ground his antagonists, was 
most intense ? Just as intense, I dare say, as that with 
wliich many of the hearers of the eloquent preacher with 
whom I began, listened to his fervid inculcation of the 
sublimest truths — and then forgot to practise them ! . . . 

Yours truly, 

E. E. H. G 



LETTER XXVIII. 

TO THE SAME. 

Tuesday, June 10, 1S43. 
My DEAR Feiend, 

The " suspicions," you say, of your friend were unjust 
and hard to bear. Yes ; unjust suspicion is always the very 
hardest thing to bear, — except, indeed^ Jitst susj^icion. Do 
we want proof ? Why, look at Job. There we see a sub- 
mission, equally magnanimous and sweet, till his friends 
came to " comfort him." What, by the bye, must be the 
condition of a man, when his greatest j)lagues are his " con- 
solations ? " 

Thus was it with the Patriarch. His wife was bad enough, 
no doubt ; and truly politic was the astute malignity of Sa- 
tan in letting her remain, whatever else he took away ; ac- 
cording to Coleridge's epigram : — 

" He took his honors, took liis •wealth, 
He took his children, took his health, 
His camels, horses, asses, cows, — ■ 
And the sly devil did not take his spouse." 
10* 



114 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

But his wife was nothing to \m friends. She was a blas- 
phemous idiot — unless the translators have done her injus- 
tice ; and Job gets rid of her, as the Antiquary might have 
done, by telling her she si3ake as one of the " foolish woman- 
kind." But only think of the greater folly of the three phi- 
losophic " Consolers," — who came to see their friend in the 
extremity of his desolation, and had nothing better to tell 
him than that they were very sorry to find him a great rep- 
robate ; hoped that, instead of offensive protestations of in- 
nocence, he would make a clean breast of it, and gratify 
them by tellmg them what a hoary old hyjDOcrite he had 
been ! It is a thousand pities that they broke their long 
silence of "seven days;" — they would have done much 
better in their character oimutes^ and might have thus play- 
ed their parts as decently as our modern friends of the same 
name, in other funereal scenes. 

It is true that Job spake many things " unadvisedly with 
his lips ! " but how can we wonder at it, goaded on by such 
peculiar " consolations ? " 

It would evidently have been better for Job, if he had 
said at once, "Not at home," on his dunghill, to these 
" comfortable gentlemen." It is observable that his tone 
was altered immediately after their appearance. When he 
spoke, even before they had spoken to him, he seems a 
changed man. He did not open his mouth to curse his day 
and to give expression to all those bitter, yet sublime and 
pathetic lamentations that he " had ever seen the light," till 
he saw these curious sympathizers before him. I sometimes 
think there must have been something in their very pres- 
ence that galled him; that they gazed at him, perhaps even 
before they S2:)oke, with severe and sanctimonious looks 
which betrayed unuttered suspicions, or assumed a little of 
tliat pompous air with which complacent prosperity is apt to 
regard humiliation and misery. There is something very 



JOB AND HIS FRIENDS. 115 

sweet in the reproof given to these unfriendly friends in the 
" denouement " of the scene. It has always appeared to me 
as if, in entirely passing by Job's unquestionable folly in 
some of his passionate utterances, the Divine Benignity 
made allowance for those harsh speeches as extorted from 
him in the anguish of his soul under the pressure of his ca- 
lamities, the most bitter of which was his friends' condo- 
lence. It is as though God looked on these as involuntary, 
torn from him under a condition in which moral self-control 
was lost in physical and mental agony ; and so, thinking 
only of the substantial truth of Job's declarations of recti- 
tude, and of the more enlarged views which, on the whole, 
he took of the divine administration, his condescending 
Maker refuses to take notice of these escapades of His afflict- 
ed child, — while He visits with severe rebuke the conduct 
of Bildad the Shuhite and his t^^o amiable auxiliaries ; be- 
cause, while uttering many " wise saws " and solemn tru- 
isms, they had indulged in such uncharitable suspicions, and 
had been so utterly careless about the anguish they were 
causing. He was " angry " that they had not spoken the 
thing that was right, " as His servant Job; " and they were 
to go to His " servant Job " to be prayed for, and eat hum- 
ble pie, and a good large slice of it too (I should hke to have 
seen their faces while they were munching it), else their 
leisurely and inhuman philosophy would have got them into 
a scraj)e. 

By the bye, is there not exquisite nature in the gradual 
way in which the " wordy strife," once begun, goes on in- 
creasing in harshness and uncharitableness ? The " friends " 
at first express their suspicions with circumlocution and po- 
lite ambiguity, and the " ifs " — which however, are no 
" peacemakers " — are abundant. But as the controversy 
proceeds, they become as thoughtless of Job's feelings and 
of the pangs they cause, as a Majendie in dissecting a live 



116 THE GREYSON LETTERS- 

jackass ! There is human nature for you ! Once get angry 
for an hypothesis, even though an ethical one, and our ethi- 
cal philosopher will trample charity, pity, truth itself, and 
every cardinal virtue under heaven in the mire, sooner than 
surrender a tatter of it. 

The pathos of that bitter .cry, — "Have pity on me, oh, 
my friends ! have pity on me, for the hand of God hath 
touched me," — extorts nothing from the " Consolations of 
Philosophy " on this occasion. EHphaz the Temanite is 
prompt to " answer the multitude of words " with a greater 
multitude ; and, " full of talk " himself, asks whether " a 
man full of talk is to be justified ? " Zophar the Naamathite 
has heard the " copy of his reproach," and hastens to show 
that he is not going to stand that ; while Bildad the Shu- 
hite wants to know, in a jDrolix speech, how long it will be 
before Job " makes an end of words ?" One and all hasten 
to enter their protest against Job's reasonings, and vindicate 
their system of dogmatic theology ; bring him in guilty of 
"uttering lies," "mocking God," "casting off fear," "re- 
straining prayer ;" of a " crafty tongue," and the " hope of 
the hypocrite ! " ]N^o wonder at last, after Job's final and 
most sublime self-vindication, that he intrenches himself in 
that indignant silence which is yet more touching than his 
pathos, — and exclaims, " The words of Job are ended." It 
is a great wonder to me that the good man did not fairly 
succumb under the weight of his friends' sympathy and con- 
solation. 

From this unlucky experiment, I think we may infer that 
when we see any man in trouble, and have nothing better 
to say to him than that he is probably scourged for sins of 
which we know nothing, we had better hold our tongues ; 
but, at all events, let us not wonder that such suspicions 
embitter the spirit of man far more than the troubles them- 
selves. 



JOB AND HIS FRIENDS. 117 

By the Tray, — and quite apart from this particular and 
unexampled case of condolence, I should say that it is bet- 
ter, at least in great trouble, to be at first loithout humian 
sympathy altogether. A man in his senses, left alone with 
God and himself, manages, I sometimes think, better than 
with a host of merely mortal " Consolateurs." In the pres- 
ence of the Infinite, — like Job before those accursed 
tongues began to wag, — we fall down prostrate, and hush 
the heart in silence. But if we begin to talk much with oth- 
ers, or they with us, — beshrew that confounded tongue 
(theirs and ours) ! — it somehow reacts on the heart and the 
understanding, and produces disquiet. Like the clang of a 
trumpet, it excites emotions that, but for it, might have 
slumbered. Sometimes, too, the platitudes which a mind 
at ease utters to a mind in anguish (however true they may 
be), and the provoking tranquillity with which they are doled 
out, chafe and irritate us. Sometimes we are told we grieve 
too much^ and sometimes not in the right w^ay ; sometimes 
a consolation is hinted which is felt to be none ; sometimes 
we are told to be cheerful, when we feel we can't ; and more 
frequently than all, and perhaps worse than all, comes a bit 
of mortal moral " prosing," which has been anticipated by 
our own mind a thousand times, and the repetition of which 
only tends to make us impatient. Perhaps I am peculiarly 
sensitive in this matter ; but I confess I have never been in 
profundis (and I have several times been so) without Avish- 
ing every friend that came to see me, at Jericho. 

I remember, in one of the most sorrow^ful hours of my 
life, meeting by chance with a relation who had sufiTered a 
like calamity. I had not seen lier for years ; I have ncA^er 
seen her since ; I can never see her again, at least in this 
world. We met, clasped hands, looked into each other's 
eyes, — read, reciprocally, the Avhole tale of ench other's 
sorrows there, — exchanged all unutterable thoughts, — 



118 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

and, without speaking one word, passed on. I will venture 
to say we said more, and more to the purpose too, than if 
we had been exchanging common-places of condolence 
from that day to this. 

Ever yours, 

E. E. H. G. 



LETTER XXIX. 

TO THE SAME. 

Great Barr, Aug. 1843. 
My dear "West, 

I am not ashamed to say that, after you left me, I felt 
very much like a fish out of water, if indeed you know how 
that feels. I could settle to nothing. My books seemed 
uninteresting, — the garden walk, we had so often paced 
of late, intolerably lonesome, — the silent j^iano a positively 
disagreeable object. The sun shines as bright over the green 
fields and hills as when we rambled and talked so merrily 
there yesterday, and yet it seems to shine with a sombre and 
melancholy light. Certainly those of us who live almost 
absolutely in solitude are much to be pitied when we have 
parted with a friend ; for, if the pleasure of seeing him is 
keen in proportion to the rarity of the enjoyment, the sep- 
aration is felt with a far more exquisite sensibility than can 
ever be experienced by those to whom each day brings a 
new guest, and whose memories, like the waxen tablet of 
the ancients, are ready each moment to receive a new im- 
13ression. 

These partings, — when will they cease ? or cease to be 
regretted because they can be at pleasure eternally re- 
newed ? But in this world, and at our age, I cannot help 
thinking, whenever we part, of what Cowper says so pathet- 



ANTEDILUVIAN FRIENDSHIPS. 119 

ically, that " the robin red-breast may be chirping on the 
grave of one of ns before the winter is over." I sometimes 
envy the patriarchs their longevity, who could, without ab- 
surdity, invite a friend to pay a visit, " if all be well," half 
a century, or, for the matter of that, two centuries hence, 
and at sixty besj^eak the honor and j^leasure, " if nothing 
happened," of your company at their three hundred and 
fiftieth birthday ! — at all events, when they did meet, could 
speak not only of an ancient friendship of thirty or forty 
years, as we poor ephemerals so complacently do, but of 
one of five or six centuries ! Terribly long-winded, though, 
depend upon it, must have been some of those stories which 
the old gentlemen told over a winter fire ; I imagine Me- 
thuselah's youngest son, a stripling of eighty or so, must 
often have anticipated the maxim of Montaigne, " Les 
vieillards sont dangereux." No doubt, he often quietly 
slipped out of the room just as the patriarch began that 
desperately tough affair of his " first love," when he was a 
gay youth of just one hundred. Cannot you imagine the 
ancient, surrounded with his great-great-great-great-grand- 
children, to the seventh or eighth generation, in a small fam- 
ily party of seven hundred and forty-five, — all assembled to 
celebrate his eight hundred and fifty-first birthday ? What 
prodigious lapses of time, methinks, would the old gentle- 
man be aj^t to deal with ; — how he remembered sojne- 
thing four hundred and fifty years ago, " come next fall," 
as well as if it happened "yesterday;" how he remem- 
bered it very well, because his eldest daughter's great- 
grandchild's fifth daughter's son's nephew was then a little 
lad of forty years of age, and died of the measles ! 

Yet, on second thoughts, it seems irreverent thus to talk 
of the imagined prosiness of him on whose silver hairs we 
should have looked as on the snowy summit of Mont Blanc ; 
whose eyes had gazed on those of Adam ; who could tell 



120 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

US traditions of tlie young beauty of Eve, and carry us back 
to memories of the world's dawn ! 

But would even patriarchal longevity suffice us ? I trow 
not. Even that must come to an end ; and if we were to 
live not only as long as Methuselah, but as long as Voltaire's 
little man of Saturn, whose term w^as 30,000 years, or even 
as " Micromegas " himself, w^e should still say, " This, you 
see, is just to be admitted to a glimpse of the world ; we 
are doomed to die, as one may say, the moment we are 
born." No question but Methuselah himself often read sage 
lessons in his nine hundredth year on the extreme brevity 
and vanity of human life, and told his descendants, when 
near a thousand, that his days were but " as a shadow," and 
" as a dream in the night." What then the remedy ? Ah ! 
my friend, how these partings make one long for that im- 
mortality in which there shall be none, or none that shall be 
attended with regrets; because we shall be assured that 
after a little interval — yes, for even if separation be for a 
thousand years, it will be little in comparison with eternal 
duration — w^e shall meet in joy again, and friendship know 
no death. Strange, glorious issue of things ! when friends 
shall bid each other farewell, even for five hundred years, 
witli an unmoistened eye : set out, on a little tour of some 
small portion of the universe (to visit Cassiopea, for exam- 
ple, or Orion, for two or three centuries,) and come back, 
still to find the charmed home-circle unbroken, the " immor- 
tal amaranth " still mantling the porch with its unfading 
leaf, and gardens ever verdant, because there " eternal sum- 
mer dwells." 

Mystery of mysteries ! that human folly should ever fore- 
go these enchanting hopes, and count itself " unworthy of 
eternal life : " still greater mystery, that sin should ever in- 
duce us to do anything to forfeit them ! Yet, in truth, the 
latter mystery will enable us to comprehend the former ; for 



IMMORTALITY. 121 

the fact that man is such a fool as to imperil immortal de- 
light for momentary gratifications, too well explains his 
apathy. Apart from the consciousness of demerit, there is 
not a human being who would not, amidst the sorrows and 
separations of this world, sooner part with anything than 
the hopes — even though they be faint — of immortality. 
Let a future life be only matter of guesses and conjectures, 
yet, if man thought that the sole alternatives it joresented 
were Nothing or "eternal happiness," you would see all 
mankind true to the principles on which they generally act, 
and believing as the will directed them. Yes, ready to 
knock anybody on the head Avho but whispered a doubt of 
that fair reversion which man's hopes would soon teach him 
to convert into certainty. 

Strange that any one for the sake of a little gain, or a prof 
i table lie, or the momentary gratification of any passion or 
appetite whatever, should do anything to cloud such bright 
hopes, which surely, even if delusive, are, so long as they 
are believed, by far the most solid and precious of all our 
j^leasures ! May you and I, my friend, seek, in the only 
right way, the realization of these hopes, and every day 
earnestly strive to render ourselves less strange to the scenes 
which await us, by foregoing every appetite and passion 
which is inconsistent with them. \Ye shall then at length 
greet each other, I doubt not, in that world where we shall 
either part no more, or part and meet, and meet and part 
without end ; — • meet with ever fresh delight, and part with- 
out fear or sorrow ; where " farewell " — no empty wish — 
will always fulfil itself, and " welcome " will be repeated 

for ever. 

Yours ever, 

E. E. H. G. 

11 



122 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 



LETTER XXX. 

TO A FRIEND WHO HAD ISTAREOWLT ESCAPED SPENDING A 
NIGHT IN ST. ALBAn's ABBEY.* 

My dear Friend, 

Far from laughing at you for that pit-a-pat at the heart 
as you saw the gleam of sunlight lessening in the great 
western door of the Abbey, and thought you were in for 
an autumnal night in the dreary pile, (standing so isolated, 
that by no possibility could you have made your voice 
heard,) I assure you, I quite felt for you, and was conscious 
of a sympathetic pit-a-pat even at your descrijJtion. 

I think I have as much physical courage as most men, 
and perhaps more than the average moral courage ; and 
yet I am so persuaded that mere courage, physical or moral, 
is imj^otent against the cuinidative effects of imagination 
when that faculty is subjected to the continuous pressure 
of influences favorable to its unchecked activity, that 
I would not answer for myself, or for any man in the cir- 
cumstances in which you seemed likely to be placed. 

In truth, let the imagination be ever so feeble, let it be 
with or without culture, still I believe fully that its latent 
energies may, under the operation of novel, imj^ressive, and 
sufficiently i^ersistent influences, be roused into such in- 
tense action, as to overmaster every other faculty ; subdue 
not only reason and judgment by ideal terrors, but impose 
laws on sensation itself; make the eyes see, and the ears 
hear, just what it pleases. 

I dare say you may recollect reading of sentinels during 

* Finding the door open, he had wandered in one autumn afternoon, 
and, lost in thought, was musing in the ancient pile, when he heard steps 
near the distant door. He turned, and had just time to call to the vanish- 
ing figures. A minute later, and he would have been shut in all night. 



POWER OF IMAGINATION. 123 

the Peninsular War, who, having been stationed on the 
outskirts of the field after a day's skirmish, have been 
known to desert in the night, not from fear of living 
enemies, but from inability to endure the proximity of 
the dead ! There lay the foe in the dread silence of his 
last sleep, and put his living foe to flight ! I can easily 
imagine such a thing happening even to a brave man. 

I remember, when a lad of sixteen, it used to be some- 
times my lot to pass a remarkably dreary and isolated 
churchyard about a mile distant from a very ancient 
country town. Like some other ancient towns, it has 
gradually shifted its site and left its churchyard behind it, 
as if the dead and the living had quarrelled; — no bad 
separation, by the way. If I were writing now to our 
worthy friend, the Rector of , I would maliciously sug- 
gest whether it might not be from antipathy to " sermons " 
that we thus find old towns sometimes hitching away 
from the church ! 

At that time of life, an imputation of fear was my 
greatest fear. So feeling ashamed of a certain uneasy 
consciousness of gladness when my horse had fairly turned 
the corner of the road which led into the churchyard, I 
resolved, one wild-looking, stormy November evening, to 
face and conquer this indefinite dread. I tied my horse 
to the gate which led into the charmed ground, and de- 
termined to walk fairly round it. I did so, — and I need 
hardly say saw nothing; yet I will own to you that 
before I had made the circuit, the senses were sufficiently 
quickened to convince me that it only required sufficient 
time to make me see and hear any thing that imagination 
should choose to palm upon me. The melancholy autumn 
wind sighed and moaned with peculiar solemnity among 
the branches of the dark trees which edged the wall of 
the churchyard ; and as it rustled in the long grass of the 



124 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

graves over which I stumbled, and made the sear leaves 
patter on the grave-stones, I could almost fancy I heard 
the feet of supernatural visitants; the shimmering of 
a Avhite tomb seen in the distant gloom looked like a 
" sheeted ghost ; " and as I was just getting round to the 
point which led straight to the churchyard gate, all at 
once, and without any reason or warning, I had a sort of 
vision, as my eyes rested on ^ a large tomb, of a figure 
lifting its arm with a menacing gesture. It w^as, I doubt 
not, the fancy-transformed shape of some monumental 
sculpture ; but it came with such startling suddenness 
that it left me without power of reasoning upon it. I 
made a strong effort to walk straight on, though quick- 
ening my pace, and was glad enough, I am not ashamed 
to say, to regain my horse's back, — who, happily proof 
against all imagination, was quietly munching his grass, 
and, I dare say, wondering in his mind at the unreasonable 
hour I had chosen for my devotions ! 

I once had a friend who lost his way on one of the 
mountains of Cumberland one autumn evening ; and fear- 
ful of walking down some precipice, and equally afraid of 
going to sleep, he paced out a little walk, before it became 
quite dark, and resolved to keep in motion to and fro on 
that sentinel's beat all night. He told me that as he 
looked at the giant peaks and the shadowy glens by the 
light of a waning moon, and listened to the distant roar 
of waters in the still and solemn night, his imagination 
possessed and terrified him almost to madness ; and I can 
well believe it. 

Had you been caught, I can easily suppose that you 
might have been fairly over-mastered before morning, and 
come out an — idiot! You would have had an endless 
variety and succession of sights and sounds wherewith 
fancy might play you tricks, — making you at last see 



POWER OF IMAGINATION. 125 

what is invisible, and hear what is inaudible. No doubt 
you would have spent the hour of fading twilight in 
pacing up and down the echoing aisles, trying to persuade 
yourself of the folly of ideal terrors, and that, beyond the 
absurdity and inconvenience of your situation, there was 
really nothing to disturb you. But, as you felt chilly 
with the night wind, and weary and faint with fasting (for 
an empty stomach has a good deal to do with a haunted 
brain, yea, a glass of warm negus has a mighty power of 
laying ghosts), imagination would begin to plague you; 
and the very echo of your footsteps, as you trod the 
resounding pavement, would seem to suggest sounds 
whispering in the roof. A sudden gleam of moonlight, 
as it broke through a cloud and chased a shadow near 
some distant pillar, would seem to show your startled eye 
that some living shape had glided behind the column ; or 
as it brought out into shimmering light a distant monu- 
mental figure, would animate the marble with fancied life 
and motion. The very look of that low black door in the 
spacious north transept, seen in such vivid contrast with 
the white walls and columns, and leading down (so tradi- 
tion says) to the tombs of the old abbots — would, if I 
am not mistaken, almost seem to you, as you passed it at a 
distance, half open ; nay, do you not hear some strange 
sounds within it? There are also, you feel confident, 
mutterings and whisperings in the long cloistered walk 
over head among the second tiers of pillars. Hark! what 
was that sound? Pshaw! it is but a distant turret door 
slamming to with the night wind. You are but just con- 
vinced of it, when a rustling sound behind you seems to 
show that footsteps are pattering near. No, it is but the 
swaying of the branches of the old yew-tree against a 
distant window. Another burst of moonlight suddenly 
calls out of darkness a grotesque and grinning monster near 

11* 



126 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

you. Look again ; pish ! it is but a fantastic ornament of 
tomb or pillar. All at once, the sharp shrill scream of the 
owlet startles the ear of night ; — how deep, how appalling, 
is the silence that follows ! Suddenly there is again a sound 
behind you, and, as you turn, a flickering shadow is seen ; 
it is certainly some one disappearing behind that j^illar. 
One — two — the clock tolls midnight ; its vibrations are 
painfully distinct to the ear . . . and you think there are six 
long hours of darkness still before you ! 

In short, my friend, I am very glad you ivere not 
called to face this nocturnal adventure, for I fear that long 
before you had pished and pshaioed^ and pooh-poohed 
away the sights and sounds which haunted you, imagi- 
nation might so have transformed and misinterpreted 
them, as to make a fool of reason. 

Did you ever stand and watch the dead, alone and 
steadily for some time — especially by candle-light ? I 
have, and without a particle of fear ; but as I have con- 
tinued to gaze, I have seen how easily imagination might 
be deceived. I could sometimes almost have sworn that 
I had seen a slight movement of the heavy eyelashes, or a 
very slow rising and falling of the shroud, as of a perfectly 
noiseless breathing ! 

Plow exquisitely does Walter Scott depict the effect on 
the rude Deloraine, as he takes the "mighty book" from 
the Wizard's " dead hand," in Melrose Abbey ! The 
flickering light on the face of death will often give just 
the appearance of that "dread frown." 

" Then Deloraine in terror took 
From the dead hand the mighty book, 
AVith iron elapsed, and with iron bound 
He thought as he took it, the dead man frowned. 
But the glare of the sepulchral light, 
Perchance had dazzled the warrior's sight." 



POWER OF IMAGINATION. 127 

No doubt habit will reconcile iis to any thing; and 
people would, in a little while, sleep as sound in a charnel- 
house or in your abbey, as anywhere else. But place 
them in totally novel circumstances, and the old suscep- 
tibilities revive, and imagination asserts its supremacy 
again. 

It is well, no doubt, to be freed from all superstitious 
fears ; but the universal tendency of the human mind to 
people, with ideal shapes, solitude and night, and the 
abodes of the dead, — a tendency which assumes, in gen- 
eral, so intense a form in that hour when men draw near 
the " land of shadows," — does it not seem to indicate, 
my friend, that there are faculties in our nature Avhich 
prophesy, fxavTcvovcn, as a Greek would say — presage, 
give us an " inkling " of, the supernatural ? Do not sus- 
ceptibilities, which are so easily awakened in almost every 
bosom, aiford a presumption that we are in affinity with 
another world, and continually stand on the frontiers of 
it? I know that this alo?ie would be an inadequate 
argument for such a conclusion; but supposing it made 
out by other and more tangible evidence, is not this 
sensitiveness of the imagination to all the circumstances 
which insulate us from the world, and seem to bring us in 
fancy to the confines of the world of spirits, in harmony 
with this solemn conclusion ? 

I know that it is the custom of many philosophers not 
only to laugh at ideal terrors — which is very proper — 
but to laugh also at this universal tendency^ and resolve it 
all into association ; — even the presaging inquietude of a 
dying hour. But whether they be philosophical in this is 
another question. 

They reason thus : that as we are so often beguiled by 
ideal terrors, therefore this whole tendency of the imagi- 
nation is illusory, and death and its revelations as little to 



128 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

be dreaded as night and silence. Other men, so far as 

they lay any stress on this sensitiveness of imagination at 

all, would argue that it rather indicates that there are 

unseen realities than that there are 7iooie^ though, no 

doubt, it often befools itself; just as shadows indicate a 

substance, or as dreams are the counterpart of realities. 

One thing, at all events, both of us know well enough ; 

that many who are most contemptuously incredulous in all 

such matters prove the greatest cowards when the trial 

comes. Abundance of examples show that those who have 

gathered courage from the illusory character of su23ersti- 

tious fears to j^roclaim, while in health and strength, the 

equally illusory character of the terrors of death itself, are 

ajjt at last to prove arrant cravens. This so frequent failure 

of courage ought to make these Bardolphs and Bobadillas 

of the devil a little more modest ; — they should not, for 

very shame, boast and swagger over their cups, in high 

blood and in broad daylight, since, like so many of their 

fellows, they may be found showing the " white feather " 

when the inevitable hour, which can alone test their courage, 

comes. 

Yours faithfully, 

K. E. H. G. 



LETTER XXXI. 

TO ALFRED WEST, ESQ. 



Januakt, 1844. 



My dear West, 

So J. S. is unmasked at last. Upon my honor I 

almost pity him ; — not for being unmasked, for on that 
he ought rather to be congratulated, since it has at least put 
a term to a course of what must have been unparalleled 



FIT PUNISHMENT OF HYPOCRISY. 129 

self-torture, and was a necessary condition of even a chance 
of reformation ; but I almost pity him to think of the 
frightful suffering he must have imjjosed on himself in 
wearing so long that close vizard, which must, one would 
think, have almost suffocated him. How much more hard, 
if the hy]^)ocrite did but know it, to seem than to he vir- 
tuous ! 

As to your question, " what punishment would be a])- 
propriate for hyj^ocrisy," — it is hard to say ; I only know 
that as few can be too severe for it, so few can be more 
so than that which its eternal arts against detection, its 
shifts and self-constraint, must inflict on itself. I only 
know of one thing that could make it much worse ; and 
that would be (if we had the j^ower to manage it), to com- 
pel hy]:>ocrisy to act the hypocrite perfectly ; that is, not 
only to give smiles, gestures, words, or tears, in homage to 
i-eligion and virtue, but acts — though still reluctant acts ; 
practical hypocrisy, in short, in which virtue should be 
exactly simulated, and have nothing wanting in the world, 
except that trifling thing — its essence. Only think of the 
rueful acquiescence with which a benevolent hypocrite would 
back his bland spnpathy with distress and misfortune — 
by a constrained donation of a guinea ; — the too sincere 
groans and grimaces with which a h^^iocrite in religion 
would perform the secret devotions to which he felt him- 
self internally driven by an irresistible impulse, without 
meaning a word of the long prayers he uttered ; the vexa- 
tion with which he would find that sleep fled his eyelids 
till he had punctually performed his two hours of evening 
meditation and devotion (a genuine penance surely), for 
which he was taking credit of the world ! How pleasant 
for the sentimental philanthropist to find himself, perforce, 
whispering consolation at the bedside of the sick and dying, 
and adored as a Howard mthout a particle of claim to it! 



130 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

the "gay Lothario," sore against his will, compelled to 
make good that "promise of marriage" under which he 
intended to betray! the concealed toper always finding 
his secret flagon filled with delightfully transparent and 
insipid water ! the disguised rake, playing airs of chastity 
so well, as to frighten every lady of his acquaintance at 
his austerity, and the masked wanton enacting the j^rude 
so inimitably as to j^revent every eye from regarding her 
in any other light than as an angel who had mistaken her 
way and stepj^ed into a body by mistake ! Plere, you see, 
we should have every virtue under heaven and not one 
l^article of it ; all its good effects though itself non-existent ! 
You will agree with me, I think, that it would be an intol- 
erable punishment thus to " do the works of God" and be 
the " servant of the devil," — to take more pains to go to 
hell than other people to go to heaven. No doubt ; but 
then the prescribed actions are precisely what such people 
pretend to be doing, and I would merely turn the pretence 
into reality. 

But how, by the way, shall we deal with that curious 
class of hypocrites who affect fliilings which they have not; 
who acknowledge " sins" of which they were never guilty, 
for the sake of being rej^uted saints among those who make 
a merit of " voluntary humility ; " or who parade vices to 
which they are strangers for the sake of being thought 
men of ton and spirit ? To i3unish these by comi^elling 
them to act the vices they dissemble would, I fear, be no 
j^unishment at all : the " saint " Avould soon qualify him- 
self thus to be a " sinner;" and the rake do his best, at all 
events, to justify his boast of profligacy. It is hard to say 
how these are to be treated on any such plan. Perhaps 
the best way would be to get the world to resolve, that 
when the things hypocritically assumed are considered dis- 
creditable in themselves, those who assume them for the 



ESTIMATE OF "KNOWLEDGE." 181 

enhancement of humility, shall always find themselves 
believed^ and pass for true-spoken, not self-traducers ; those 
who do so to gain credit among " the men about town," 
shall be accounted liars ; thus will the " saint " get credit 
for his " sins," and the rake no credit for his " spirit." 

How little men would like, in the former case, to be sup- 
posed to speak the truth, we have a notable example in 
that old story of the monk who heard the confessions of a 
certain cardinal. " I am the chief of sinners," said the 
cardinal. " It is too true," said the monk. " I have been 
guilty of every kind of sin," sighed the cardinal. " It is a 
solemn fact, my son," said the monk. " I have indulged 
in pride, ambition, malice, and revenge," pursued his Em- 
inence. The j^rovoking confessor assented without one 
pit}dng word of doubt or protest. " Why, you fool," at 
last said the exasperated cardinal, " you don't imagine I 
mean all this to the letter." " Ho, ho ! " said the monk, 
" so you have been a liar too, have you ? " 

Yours faithfully, and " without hyi^ocrisy," 

B. E. H. G. 

P. S. If you have an opportunity, please to take an ex- 
act measure of J. S 's face. If I mistake not, you will 

find it at least one inch and three quarters shorter than it 
used to be. 



LETTER XXXII. 

TO THE SAME. 



Mat, 1844. 



My dear Friexd, 

A youth of whom you knew something, though little 

good, young B , has finished a short career of vice and 

folly by going to sea, and left his widowed mother, after 
all her passionate love and sacrifices, with a broken heart. 



132 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

What a dance the young rascal has led his guardian angel, 
if indeed he ever had any ; though I fancy he has given 
up his charge long ago in despair. The mother, it seems, 
has not j but then a mother surely is more than angel. A 
strange mystery of love — that parental instinct! How it 
outlives the worth of its object, and sets j^i'vidence, and 
calculation, and reason itself, all at defiance. When a child 
is cast off by all the rest of the world, there is one fond 
heart that still throbs and is breaking for him ; and when 
every other door is closed, there is still one left ajar. There 
the foot-fall even of his reeling stej^s at midnight, as he 
comes from his drunken orgies, is often watched and lis- 
tened for with intense agony. Such have often been the 
vigils, i^assed amidst tears and terror, of this broken- 
hearted widow. Beautiful, no doubt, most beautiful, is 
this instinct of parental love — and yet strangely akin to 
folly ; necessary, I suppose, in this evil world, to give effect 
to the Divine comj)assion which " wills not that any should 
perish, but that all should come to repentance;" yet, in 
itself, hardly reconcilable with reason. 

Il^evertheless a time must come, I supj^ose, when even 
this instinct would be wearied out, if fathers and mothers 
were unmortal upon earth, though not, perhaps, till the full 
tale of the " seventy times seven " had been duly told. 
Still, the time would come at last, when even parental love 
would tire of the task, "never ending, still beginning," 
of witnessing alternate disobedience and repentance ; when 
even a father must say to the ungrateful child — "The ex- 
periment is over ; never more will I be to thee a father ; 
never more shalt thou be to me a son." Reason revolts 
at the absurdity of an eternal series of offences and for- 
givenesses. 

Must it not also be so with the incorrigible children of 
the Father of all, — who exercises a like long-suffering ? 



PARENTAL LONG-SUFFERING. 133 

However men may dispute about hoio experiment is to 
end, — whether in ultimate annihilation, or hopeless exile 
from the all-cheering Presence, the spectacle of a responsible 
being permitted eternally to transgress and eternally to 
repent, is an absurdity which the intellect and the moral 
sense alike rebel against. 

But in this world, at all events, parental love is almost 
never extinguished. I have met with men whom insulted 
patience, accompanied with severe self-control, and a sensi- 
bility feeble by nature or subdued by habit, has armed, to 
all visible appearance at least, with power to cast off a 
worthless child. I say to all visible aj^pearance ; for we 
cannot be quite sure. Sometimes we see that a sudden 
gush of reviving tenderness sweeps away as with a flood 
all the barriers which a stoical pride had erected, and shows 
us that the fountain had been dammed up, not dry. But, 
however it be with men, I have never yet seen a woman, — 
not herself criminal, — who has utterly suppressed the 
yearning love for a child, however worthless. 

And so this poor widow sits and weeps over the cruel 
flight of this detestable cub, who has robbed her, ruined 
her, and brought down " her gray hairs with sorrow to the 
grave ; " as if his making ofi" were not the very best thing 
that could befall her ! She still persists in calling the young 
scamp's misdeeds " errors," not " crimes," and talks of his 
faults being rather those of his head than his heart, — as if 
the young brute ever had a heart ! But who can contra- 
dict her, or set his ruthless logic against the fallacies of 
maternal love? 

For myself, if I were his father, I think I should bless 
the hour of his departure, and devoutly pray that he might 
get what it is likely he loill get, — a round dozen before 
he has been a week on shipboard, I think I should feel 
so, I say, but I know not. As it is, I thank heaven I am 

12 



134 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

not his father, and so I will ease my indignation by wishing 
him not only the round dozen aforesaid, but a weekly 
repetition of the dose till he comes to a true repentance. 

And perhaps it may be so. God often suffers vice thus 
to choose its own hard school, and then at length teaches 
it wisdom. When the schooling of boyhood is over. He has 
a second school for a multitude of young fools, and there, 
by bitter experience, enforces the lessons which milder dis- 
cipline besought them to con in vain. No university for 
your young prodigal like that in which " swine " are the 
" fellow-commoners," and " famine " spreads the cloth, and 
the " husks," — and those grudged, — are the dainty fare. 
" The way of transgressors is hard," says the great book, 
and so it obviously must be if the transgressor is ever to be 
reclaimed at all. Having in obedience to intense selfishness 
defied all the allurements of love, it must be first taught, 
by a salutary severity, the xmprojitableness of selfishness. 

When I think of such cases as that of this graceless lad, 
whose graduation in vice, for the last four years, has been 
recklessly prosecuted in sight of the all unutterable sorrows 
he has inflicted; — w^hen I think that every step in his 
career has been deliberately taken, though every step sent a 
pang to his mother's heart — chasing sleep from her couch, 
and making her gray before the time, — I know not w^hether 
to laugh or be indignant at the cant of that pseudo-philan- 
throj^y which persists in regarding hardened crime and fixed 
vice as still quite amenable to the law of kindness, and pleads 
for such a relaxation of penal discipline as in fact would 
render all penal discipline a mockery. All needless and 
improfitable severity, who would not wish, on all grounds, 
to avoid? But as to indulgence and kindness, can any 
system of penal discipline afford to show the thousandth 
part of the long-suffering which a hardened criminal has 
generally set at defiance? A likely matter, that honied 



"CHRISTIAN EVIDENCES." 135 

words and nursery expostulations will operate on those 
who have, a thousand times, wrung the fibres of a mother's 
heart, and set at naught her tears of anguish ; trampled 
under foot all the sanctities of home, and slept sound, and 
laughed, and sung, and drunk, sj^ite of the haunting spec- 
tacle of the comprehensive ruin they have sj^read around 
them ! This is to imagine that the ice which would not 
relent to the sun, will melt in the beams of the aurora 
borealis. Nothing but the *' furnace" of affliction, seven 
times heated, can usually perform the first part of the 
process by which the adamant of a selfish heart is to be 
softened ; and that is the method God's providence generally 
takes. After that, the " law of kindness " may be under- 
stood. 

Hardships at sea, Avreck, pinching want, captivity, sick- 
ness on a foreign shore, and, together with one or other of 
these, the biting memories of that love he has wronged 
and that home he has lost, may be the appointed " rod and 
ferula " to bring this j)oor lad, as they have thousands more, 

to himself. 

Yours ever faithfully, 

jEl« £• H* G» 



LETTER XXXIII. 

TO THE KEY. C. ELLIS, B. D. 



January, 1845. 



My dear Fkiekd, 

That the writer of the note you have enclosed should 
talk of the " dry repellent character " of the discussions 
involved in the question of the truth of Christianity, and 
say that they are more likely to make infidels than to re- 
claim them, is not wonderful j for he is evidently almost 



136 THE GREYSON LETTERS. J 

an infidel already — at least inclined to be one; — and I 1 
never knew any young gentleman so inclined, that could 
not, like most people whose wills have bribed their under- 
standings, find arguments to suit them. But that you 
should seem to give any countenance to the nonsense that 
is talked on the subject in the present day, does, I confess, 
surprise me. You fear, you say, that so much " thorny " 
argument as to the " evidences " — canvassing the historic 
truth of the miracles, — replying to objections, — harmo- 
nizing " discrepancies," and so forth, tends rather to nurse 
scepticism than to cure it ; and that you " half feel " with 
him on the subject. It is very natural that he should en- 
deavor to evade the only mode in which, in his present 
condition, you can reach him ; — I say the only mode ; for 
try the other arguments on which you, and I, and every 
other Christian lays so much more stress than on any ex- 
ternal evidence, — and you will soon see how easily he will 
turn their edge aside. Meantime there are others he 
cannot evade ; and he is, of course, for getting rid of them, 
very naturally, by this coup de main ; and, by the way, if 
those arguments are thorny and intricate, he and those 
like him, have, for their own purposes, mainly contributed 
to render them so. I never knew a sceptic who, in discus- 
sing the general historic evidences, did not instantly take 
refuge in minute " objections " and petty " discrepancies ; " 
Avhich, however little they can affect the main points at 
issue, necessitate, of course, plenty of wrangling, nay, all 
the more for their very minuteness ; and the more of such 
objections your adversary can discover, and the greater 
the intricacy of the statements which his own pertinacity 
renders necessary, the better he is pleased. Indeed that 
plain, broad line of argument derived from the external 
evidences, which proves the truth of Christianity, (quite 
apart, I mean, from the more transcendental evidence of a 



"CHRISTIAN EVIDENCES." 137 

moral and experimental kind, which you and I should deem 
the strongest,) is in itself easy enough of apprehension, and 
may be stated, as it often has been, in a very few words. 
The things which chiefly render the subject voluminous 
and intricate have been the handiwork of Infidelity itself; 
which, ignoring the great decisive facts of evidence that 
carry the general verdict, hunts up, with exhaustive in- 
genuity, every little cavil and objection, and demands their 
discussion and settlement. This, of course, must needs 
involve a great deal of minute counter-statement, compu- 
tations of authorities, citations and opposing citations, 
comparison of dates ; tedious investigations, philological, 
historical, chronological, and antiquarian, — heaven knows 
what ; and then, from amidst the thick jungle into which 
infidelity has voluntarily plunged, and compelled you to 
plung after it, it turns round with admirable modesty, and 
complains of the tediousness, aridity, spinosity, and un- 
23rofitableness of these discussions ! 

It is much the same here as in other historic investiga- 
tions embracing complicated evidence. The main and 
decisive facts shall converge to one, and but one, result ; 
meanwhile there are enough minute points on. which in- 
genuity may suggest doubts, and on which it will be found 
impossible to satisfy a disingenuous or sceptical understand- 
ing. These points, if a man choose not to acquiesce in the 
evidence which satisfies you and the rest of the world, Ae, 
not yow, will insist on ; he will pet them ; make much of 
them ; render, for refuting him, tedious circumstantial ex- 
amination of irrelevant details necessary; weary himself 
and every soul about him with alleged trifling oppositions 
of testimony and discrepancies of statement; and then 
pleasantly declare that it is impossible to see one's way 
clearly through all that dust — which himself has raised ! 

Try the thing on any one in the mood of your young 

12* 



138 THE GREYSON LETTERS 

acquaintance ; he will desire nothing better than that you 
should depreciate the " external evidences of Christianity ; " 
and if, as yoii propose, you should insist on the spiritual 
beauty and excellence of the religion, and the experimental 
proof of it from your own intimate feeling of its worth, — 
my life for it, the " subjective " young philosoj^her will tell 
you, with a complacent smile, that it 7nay be all this to 
you y but that it is evidence which can only be yours^ not 
his / that you, doubtless, sincerely imagine that Christi- 
anity so speaks within you, but that he is not capable of 
judging of that ; he has not your experience. If, thus 
bafiicd, you attempt to find any bridge of words, any via- 
duct of logic, by which you may reach his mind, and pro- 
ceed to discuss that which, in such a mood of mind, is the 
only thing he can discuss, — the historic evidence, — I will 
answer for it, Ae, not you^ will be the first to make the dis- 
cussion the thorny thing he complains of; he will plunge 
with delight into some very minute question ; lie will be 
profoundly anxious for instant satisfaction in the great 
afiair of the " two genealogies of Christ ; " he will wish to 
know, above all things, whether the accounts of the death 
of Judas can be reconciled ; the cursing the barren fig-tree 
will be a tremendous moral obstacle ; the question as to 
whether two blind men were cured, or one only, at the gate 
of Jericho, and whether it was as our Lord went into the 
city, or as he came from it, will be of paramount importance 
with him. Such are the things, I say, which will form his 
favorite topics with you ; which, if you decline, he will 
say that you do not fairly discuss the truth of Christianity ; 
and if you accept his challenge, and go into them with the 
requisite fulness, he will say, — just as he does say, — that 
the evidences of Christianity are voluminous, and dry, and 
thorny, and intricate, and interminable, and intolerable ! — 
But he has first made them so. 



"CHRISTIAN EVIDENCES." 139 

It is plain, of course, that in discussing the question with 
him it will be your duty as much as possible to recall him 
constantly to the great leading lines of historic argument, 
and induce him if you can, to see that it is question of a 
balance of evidence. You must, if possible, guard yourself 
and him from playing hide and seek in trivial objections 
which never have prevented, which never will prevent, the 
majority of men from acquiescing in the substantial truth 
of Christianity in spite of such cavils. But if you talk with 
him at all, you must, in his present mood^ resort to the ex- 
ternal evidences, because they- are the only ones in which 
there can be any access of your mind to his, or of his to 
yours ; it is the bridge between you just now, and the only 
one ; not the best bridge, perhaps, but the best you have. 
Therefore, if you would not give in to any pernicious delu- 
sion, which he would very well like to spread, do not talk 
in the style of your last letter about the — danger of dis- 
cussina; the Christian evidences ! 

If you say that it is a pity you cannot immediately assail 
hhn with that species of evidence, — the spiritual and ex- 
perimental, — which you feel to be so much more potent, 
it is so indeed ; for if he were in a condition to appreciate it, 
you need not insist on it at all ; he would already feel it, 
and be beyond the need of your logic, because already con- 
vinced. If you say it is a pity that you should be compelled 
to argue Christianity on lower ground than you feel it is en- 
titled to occupy, that also is true ; but then it is your op- 
ponent's fault, not yours ; if you wish to do him good, you 
must attempt it in the ways, and the only ways he leaves 
open to you. You may regret that he will walk with you 
only in moonlight, when he might do so by sunlight ; but 
if you wish to aid him in his journey, you must not refuse 
to go because he chooses an inconvenient hour and an un- 
certain light. 



140 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

If you say that it appears to give him an advantage, to 
argue the matter on less than what you feel the highest 
grounds, — it is very true ; but you are to recollect that 
you may lament, but cannot envy, his tactics ; his victories, 
like those of Pyrrhus, are victories that may well ruin him. 
Meantime, you must do battle with him, if you do battle 
with him at all, on common ground. The one cannot fight 
in the heavens, and the other on the earth. 

If you say that perhaps it would be better to decline con- 
troversy with such men altogether, and trust exclusively to 
the silent persuasion of a lofty, consistent, practical exhibi- 
tion of a Christian life^ — I assure you that whatever im- 
portance you attach to this last, I attach just as much ; so 
much, that if all Christians, or Christians in general, did 
full justice to this argument, I believe it would produce 
more eifect than all other arguments put together ; but if 
you can do your opponents any good by word of mouth, as 
well as by this silent eloquence too, — especially as this si- 
lent eloquence is often lacking — pray do not decline doing 
so ; but then be pleased to recollect that if you attempt it, 
you must not throw cold water on the only sort of topics 
which can be argued between you. 

I must once more insist that through our internal experi- 
mental proof of the truth of Christianity is to us the greatest 
of all, it is also the one most easily evaded, so far as any 
mere statement of it goes. If polite the infidel will say, with 
a smile, — "I dare say you think so. I dare say you are 
quite sincere in your confident tone;" and if conceited will 
add, " but in my judgment, it is all enthusiasm — fanati- 
cism — ' Schioarmerei ' — it is all ' subjective,' I want the 
' objective ;'" and so, if you talk with him at all, to the ex- 
ternal and historic you must perforce both go. However, 
as I have said, you make the experiment for yourself. 



"CHRISTIAN EVIDENCES." 141 

The examples yon allege seem to me utterly beside the 
13m-pose. You quote the passage of Cowj^er's Cottager, 
"spinning at her own door," — 

" Who knew, and only knew, the Bible true — 
A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew," — 

and then ask, " what she could have gained by reading Pa- 
ley's Evidences ?" Why little or nothing, of course. But 
what conceivable relation is there between her and those 
for whom such books are chiefly, and indeed in the last re- 
sult, solely written? for it is to guard against possible attacks 
from those who " beUeve not," that they become of any 
value to those who do. If already convinced by that 
more intimate knowledge, that sj^iritual illumination, that 
" peace " which the bible brings to all who truly love it and 
live according to it (as was the case with Co^q^er's poor spin- 
ner), every such work as Paley's is utterly useless, excej^t 
as it is ahvays well not only to have implicit and uncon- 
scious, but conscious and explicit, reasons of the " hope that 
is in us." She had, as all such have, a vivid faith, which 
can dispense with all books of e\adence ; but what has this 
got to do with the case of infidelity ? What bearing has it 
on the best method of dealing with one who is averse to 
Christianity ? Of what use is it to urge that it is not ne- 
cessary to adopt any such method with those who love it ? 
I am so far from having any difference with you on this 
point, that I quite agree in thinking that those j^reachers 
err, if indeed there are any such, — I cannot think there 
are many in our day, — who make the "evidences" of 
Christianity and objections against it the staple of their 
sermons to their already convinced flocks. Whether, as 
you think, such " sermons " tend rather to excite doubt 
than to appease it, I know not ; but assuredly it may Avell 
make folks impatient to hear that continually iterated which 



142 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

they do not dispute, and that proved of which they never 
doubt ; nor can they get spiritually fat on such a lean Alpine 
pasturage. In some instances too, it may well be that the 
very objections which might never have been heard of but 
for such unwise obtrusion of them, may occasion doubts 
which the answer would not remove. If I were a preacher, 
I should certainly take opportunity, now and then, as it 
fairly offered itself, to give folks a clear and brief statement 
of the outline of the Christian evidences, and the principal 
grounds on which a reasonable faith is founded — on the 
princij^le that they ought to be, like the Bercean converts, 
intelligent as well as sincere Christians. But I should as 
little think of descanting frequently or diffusely on infidel 
objections, as of talking to an aj^ple-woman about the prin- 
ciples of 23olitical economy, on which, like the rest of the 
world, she, without knoAving it, bought and sold. But 
what has all this to do with the mode in which you are to 
deal with the infidel himself? If the road be thorny, still 
he chooses it, even while he complains of its ruggedness, 
and you must needs follow him. 

You say, and say truly, that you cannot but think that 
the Bible so reflects, as in a mirror, the great facts of man's 
S23iritual condition and necessities, that if any one will read 
it with " simj^licity," he must feel how true it is to our na- 
ture. I quite agree with you ; but, first, a man may admit 
the vmnts of human nature, yet object to the Bible mode 
of meeting them ; may admit the disease, and yet reject 
the remedy. Now the very question is here ; and directly 
the man comes to that^ the historical problem returns ; for 
surely as long as he doubts the remedy, he is not likely to 
take it. What are the facts of Christianity, and on what 
grounds are they to be accepted as such ? — this question 
he perforce in such a mood must revolve. A man may ad- 
mit a vague, or even distinct sense — there are few, that 



"CHRISTIAN EVIDENCES." 143 

are not idiots, but will — of man's moral destitution ; his 
weakness, guilt and fears ; his uncertainty on all the great 
moral j^roblems which it most imports us to know ; whence 
we came, and whither we are going ; — but he will not, on 
that account, take the remedy proposed, unless he believes 
it to be such. Do not then, since you must deal with such 
men, fall into the foolish cant which represents it of little 
use to argue with them on the question of the " Christian 
evidences " — for though you may think, and think justly, 
tliat the men defraud themselves of a great benefit when 
they make the evidences so " long and thorny a path," it is 
tlie path for the present in which alone you can encounter 
them. 

And tlien, secondly, as to reading the New Testament 
with " simplicity," this is, in foct, to suppose the principal 
work done ; get them to do that, and you need not argue 
with them long. Meantime, I fancy your " simplicity " is 
great, if you expect they will do it. For my own part, I 
think it is but too plain that the generality of such folks 
read the Bible for no other purjDose than to hunt up objec- 
tions. They are like the sceptic of whom Fuller says — 
" He keeps a register of many difficult places of Scripture ; 
not that he desires satisfaction therein, but delights to puz- 
zle divines thercAvith ; and counts it a gi-eat conquest wben 
he hath posed them. Unnecessary questions out of the 
Bible are his most necessary study ; and he is more curious 
to know where Lazarus's soul was, the four days he lay in 
the grave, than careful to provide for his own soul when he 
shall be dead." 

In a word, your position in reference to such is much 
like that of the ethical philosopher in relation to some 
young idiot, — we now and then meet mth one, -^ who pro- 
tests he can see no distinction between " moral right and 
\\Tong," — believes that conscience is a bundle of " conven- 



144 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

tionalitics" and "artificial associations," and the rest of the 
gibberish proj^er to that theory. You may decHne reason- 
ing with him, certainly, but if you Jo, it is of no use to in- 
sist on the transcendental evidence which you have in your 
own consciousness, of which he denies the experience in 
himself; — though, by the bye, you may perhaj^s shrewdly 
suspect the young scamp lies ; — nor can you insist on the 
" sublimity, and beauty, and grandeur " of Virtue and the 
" deformity " of Vice, since he denies their very existence. 
Haj^pily there are not many such people ; but if you rea- 
son with them at all, you must take the old way of logic 
and induction, — you must reason fYoro. facts : and assured- 
ly you will then soon find them comi:)laining of this " dry, 
logical " treatment of the subject ; they at the same time, 
by every art of soj^histry, making it ten tunes as " thorny " 
as it need be ! 

If you do not choose to argue with such a man in the 
only way his peculiar position allows, you must close the 
disjDute with Dr. Johnson's concise dilemma, — " Either the 
man believes what he says, or he does not ; if he does 7iot., 
he is a liar ; if he does, why, then, let us count our spoons !" 

Most cordially do I agree with you that, to those who 
will experimentally prove Christianity, there is evidence as 
far transcending all logical demonstration as the conscious- 
ness of the happiness of well-doing surpasses a mere intel" 
lectual conviction that virtue will lead to hapj^iness. 

It is our felicity that we " know whom we have believed ;" 
-^ — that Ave " speak that we do know, and testify that we 
have seen," when we say that the Gospel is no " cun- 
ningly devised fable." I also firmly believe that even he 
who does not fully yield to it, will do so if he honestly ex- 
amines with a desire to understand and a willingness to re- 
ceive it. " He that will do the will of God shall know of 
the doctrine whether it be of God," But this requires do^ 



PULPIT STYLE. 145 

cility and candor : where there are these, the " evidences " 
in the ordinary sense would be brief enough, and would no 
longer be " thorny." 

Yours ever faithfully, 

K. E. II. G. 

P. S. This is a tract rather than a letter ; but the im- 
mense importance of the subject induced me to express my 
thoughts very fully. 



LETTER XXXIV. 

TO THE REV. S. W . 

March, 184r). 



My DEAR Mr. W , 

As a comparative stranger, I have no right to trouble you 
with advice ; yet as a sincere well-wisher, who admires your 
talents, and is most anxious that you should do justice to 
the glorious function you have assumed, permit me to make 
one or two remarks on a sentiment which I lately heard you 
express, and which a little alarmed me for your success. 

You said, I recollect, that " as you were going to a re- 
mote country village, it would be easy to satisfy your rustic 
congregation ; that you did not apprehend they would make 
large demands on preparation ; and that simple truth, ex- 
pressed in simple language, would be quite enough for 
Mem." 

Enough, I am sure, if the words be rightly understood ; 
only I fancy that, if that be the case, it will be found that 
" simple truth, expressed in simple language," must involve 
very careful preparation. " Simple truth " must not mean 
common-place, nor " simple language " any plain words that 
come to hand. If you would produce any lively or durable 
impression on any audience (rustic or polished matters not), 

13 



146 THE GKEYSON LETTERS. 

you must give them thoughts that strike^ and these must be 
expressed in apt words ; and to speak in this fashion will re- 
quire, depend on it, very careful study. Take heed of the 
fallacies lurking in the terms " simple truth " and " simple 
language ; " for they are rocks on which many a man has 
struck. 

*' Simple truth " — the simple truth of the Gospel, — I 
ti'ust, will ever be the basis of your preaching, as I am sure 
you desire it to be. Apart from that assemblage of doc- 
trines and precepts which can alone make Christianity a 
thing worth listening to by sorrowful and guilty humanity, 
all pulpit eloquence will be but " sounding brass or a tink- 
ling cymbal." I hope, too, that these truths (as you pro- 
pose) will be expressed in " simple language." But Truth 

— the most important truth a preacher can enforce — may 
be easy of comprehension, and it may be expressed in forms 
none can misunderstand, and yet its advocate may have ut- 
terly neglected his entire duty notwithstanding. His busi- 
ness is, by apt method, arrangement, illustration, imagery, 
vivacity of language, animation both of style and manner, to 
render Truth, not simj^ly understood, assented to with a 
drowsy nod, then slept over^ — but felt ; not only known, 
which, by the way, it generally is before he opens his lips, 

— but the object of symj^athetic intelligence, and the source 
of emotion ; to animate it with life, to clothe it with beauty, 
and make it worthy of" all acceptation." 

Now, to do all this for your rustic audience, will demand, 
(take my word for it,) not less study and effort than if you 
were preaching to the most polished audience in the land : 
in some respects more, for you might legitimately speak to 
these last (and perhaps more easily to yourself) on many 
subjects which would be mere Hebrew and Greek to the 
parishioners of your Ultima Thiile ; and, for similar rea- 
sons, the range of your diction will also be more limited. 



PULPIT STYLE. 147 

On the other hand, rely on it (and I say it after much ob- 
servation of the effects of public speaking), if the topics are 
such as your audience can deal with (and let me tell you 
they can deal with a good deal more than is generally 
thought), none of the pains you may bestow on your dis- 
courses — on the arrangement of your thoughts, and on your 
modes of illustrating and expressing them — will be thrown 
away. Your audience, however rustic, w^ll show that they 
appreciate excellence of style, though they may not be con- 
scious of the lohy^ and perhaps never dream — simple souls ! 
— that you are eloquent at all. So much the better, my 
dear sir ; — and better still, if, which is much more difficult, 
you can forget it too. 

However, though they know nothing of " analytical criti- 
cism," nothing of the " principles of logic and rhetoric," youb 
do ; and you will see that if you comply with the genuine 
" rules of art," by truly adapting your discourse to your au- 
dience, your audience will show that they naturally obey the 
laws of criticism, though they do not comprehend them. 
They will show here, as in other cases, the characters " of 
the law written on their hearts," though never studied in the 
codes of rhetoricians. Among your rustic hearers, as well 
as among the most refined of our species, pathos will exact its 
tears ; affection and earnestness, sympathy. With them, as 
with their betters, vivacious imagery and force of diction will 
light up the eye, and awaken intelligence, attention, and 
emotion. 

The fact is, that great injustice is often done to plebeian 
hearers. The praise which is lavished on the critical Athen- 
ians, as though they were miracles of taste, because they 
hung with rapture on the lips of Demosthenes, is nearly as 
applicable to many other crowds. Look at the history of 
our great political speakers. Take the most famous names 
of the House of Commons. Was it there only they were 



148 THE GPwEYSON LETTERS. 

listened to with rapture? Were not Fox and Burke as 
welcome at the hustings as ever they were at St. Stephens ? 
Did not promiscuous crowds Usten as applaudingly as their 
more select audience of fellow representatives ? Is it not so 
always ? Take again the greatest preachers. Have not 
men of all orders of intelligence, and of the widest degrees 
of culture, formed their congregations ? 

Speaking of the difference between provincial dialects and 
the national idiom, — the latter of which is understood by 
those who speak the former, though the former may be un- 
intelHgible to those who speak the latter, — Dr. Kenrick 
curiously observes: "The case of languages, or rather 
speech, is quite contrary to that of science ; in the former, 
the ignorant understand the learned, better than the learned 
do the ignorant ; in the latter it is otherwise." Something 
like it may be said of true eloquence : a common artisan 
may appreciate the point, force, vivacity, of a discourse, 
nay, instinctively feel the elegance and music of it, and not 
be able to speak a single sentence grammatically. You will 
not, of course, suj^pose that I wish you to attempt a style, 
whether of thought or expression, ambitiously above your 
rude flock ; that would be anything but true eloquence in 
my esteem : all I mean is, that there is to them, as to every 
one, as great a difference between a commonplace treatment 
of the very same Christian truth, and one really adapted to 
awaken attention and kindle emotion, as there is between 
the style of the dullest retailer of soporific truisms and the 
style of Demosthenes; and that to attain such a genuine el- 
oquence, if you have, as I believe you have, a sacred ambi- 
tion to do good, is well Avorth your utmost diligence and is 
not to be attained without it. 

Forgive this little exercitation on " Rhetoric," 

And believe me 

Yours truly, 

K. E. H. G. 



HABITUAL ACTIONS — AUTOMATIC OR NOT? 149 

P. S. I intend, next summer, to visit your part of the 
country ; if so, I shall ensconce myself some Sunday morn- 
ing in a remote pew, in your old-fashioned church, and see 
how far you have thought my remarks worth attention ! 



LETTER XXXV. 

TO C. MASON, ESQ. 

Sutton, Oct. 1845. 

My dear Mason, 

I know you used to take a lively interest in that old met- 
a^^hysical dispute, — which, I suppose, like most other met- 
aphysical disputes, will be always revived and never decid- 
ed, — as to whether our habitual actions are automatic ; or 
whether, however rapid they are and however little trace 
they may leave on our consciousness, the will in each case 
interposes with a special act. You used, I remember, to 
take the former view, while I rather inclined to the latter. 
Last night, a most absurd thing happened to me, which al- 
most inclines me to take your side. And yet, as you will 
see, I am not sure that the pleasant ingenuity with which 
mind is always too subtle for itself when it asks its wise self 
about its own phenomena, cannot find plenty of arguments 
against it. But first to my fact. Except to you who know 
me, it might perhaps seem incredible. 

You are aware of my fidgetiness about ^rey reason good, 
— since I was once within an ace of being burnt down 
through a neighbor's negligence. Nevertheless, by the 
way, I am so wakeful that I almost always, in summer read 
in bed, undisturbed by any fear lest somnolence should sur- 
prise me before I have extinguished the light. In winter, I 
find it hard to leave the fireside and go shivering to those 
hyperhorean regions above stairs ; and sometimes have sat 

1^ 



150 THE GREY SON LETTERS. 

up (I am ashamed to say) half the night, musing and read- 
ing, from sheer rekictance to confront the miseries of those 
arctic regions. Well, at last, still in a reverie (I should think 
this absurdity has happened to me some scores of times), I 
have lighted a chamber candle, gone to bed, and then, when 
the liglit has been extinguished and I am just beginning to 
get cosey, I have been perversely unable to recollect whether 
I have put out the candles below, or not ! After having in 
vain tried (as usual in such cases) to coax reason and con- 
science into the belief that all is right, — and sometimes I 
in vain have debated the matter a good half hour, — I have 
found that there was no help for it but turning out, groping 
my way down stairs, and seeing , I was going to say, if all 
was perspicuously dark ! Strange to say, I never did yet 
find that the habitual act, of wdiich I should have been so 
glad, on many a cold night, to catch the faintest reminiscence, 
had failed me. I always found that the light had been ex- 
tinguished, though the remembrance of the act had been 
simultaneously extinguished too. This, in the course of my 
solitary life of the last twenty years, had occurred to me, as 
I have said, considerably more than a score of times. " What 
a fool you must be !" I imagine I hear you say, sotto voce / 
but it is nothing to my folly of last night — if, indeed, I 
ought not rather to take it as a jDroof of a profound capacity 
of abstraction ! For, will you believe it ? after making this 
unwilling journey, I foundj on regaining my chamber, that 
in the very act of descending, my mind had been arrested 
by the subject which had been previously occupying my 
thoughts, and I had actually come back, unconscious — to- 
tally unconscious — as to whether the candles had been ex- 
tinguished or not ! Luckily, I had not got into bed, or else, 
the night being cold, I almost think I should have preferred 
the risk of being burned down to going down stairs again. 
As it was, down I went, and, by due and diligent effort to 



HABITUAL ACTIONS — AUTOMATIC OR NOT? 151 

keep my mind from wandering, peered into the darkness, 
and clearly saw that there was nothing to be seen. This is 
literal fact, 

Now such a thing is almost enough to convince me of 
what, at other times, opposite arguments have convinced 
me is false — namely, that our habitual actions may be per- 
fectly automatic, and that Mistress Mind, having given 
general orders to the footmen and housemaids of her organ- 
ism, to do such and such things, said menials proceed to 
execute them, while Mind retires to her " pineal gland," 
or wherever else she pleases to go, and troubles herself no 
more about the matter. It is a very pretty little theory ; 
but, like most other metaphysical theories, is capable of 
being confronted and confuted by equally conclusive argu- 
ments ; Avhile (what is the most provoking thing of all) that 
very Mind, about whose condition the Avhole dispute is, 
takes alternately both sides, or stands staring at herself 
like a dolt, and cannot tell whether she has anything to do 
with the said acts or not. 

Yet, with due submission, I must think, after all, that, 
on the whole, the arguments in favor of Mind's having 
something to do with even the most automatic of our 
actions preponderate. The principal arguments against it 
are the inconceivable rapidity of the acts, and the subse- 
quent unconsciousness of the mind's having had any part in 
them. As to the last argument, begging Mind's pardon, I 
do not think it worth a button, considering how deplorably 
ignorant Mind is of herself and her doings, which, from time 
immemorial, she has been perpetually disputing about. Her 
opinion, either way, founded on her knowing nothing about 
the matter, cannot be of much importance. It is too plain 
that she is every day, and still more every night, occupied, 
in her flighty way, with a thousand thoughts of which she 
retains no traces in the memory ! 



152 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

As to the former argument, the mere rapidity of the 
acts ; — for example, of a rope-dancer's ever-shifting pos- 
tures, — a conjurer's tricks, — a skilled musician's compli- 
cated, and all but simultaneous movements, — a public 
speaker's voluble utterance, — as to these, and the like 
stock examples, of those who take your side of the question, 
they do not, I confess, much move me : and that for a 
reason which I do not recollect having seen insisted on by 
any metaphysical writer, but which appears to me abso- 
lutely conclusive on the subject ; for, ought the mere velo- 
city of material movement, which we see in all these cases 
is attained, to be any argument against the possibility of 
equal velocity of thought and volition ? Ought we not, a 
fortiori^ to judge that if eyes and fingers — mere material 
organs — can and do perform such inexi^ressibly nimble 
feats. Mind can more than keep up with them ? And, if 
so, that very velocity will serve to explain the former diffi- 
culty, to which I have already given an answer not quite so 
complimentary to Mind, — that no trace is left in the con- 
sciousness. That, probably, is due to the very rapidity with 
which the acts are performed. 

And yet how strange it seems, now I think of it, that 
Mind, which is urging all this in its own behalf, and using 
its too notorious obliviousness as an argument in favoc of 
its activity, should not be able to decide the matter, and is 
probably only saying what will appear to you the most 
improbable conjecture ! 

Yet I may further say, in defence of the hypothesis I 
rather prefer, that some of the strongest instances some- 
times urged against it are really in its favor. The supposed 
automatic movements on which its opponents lay so much 
stress, are often, as appears to me, by no means automatic, 
but necessarily imply, in many cases, however rapid, an 
equally rapid succession of distinct and conscious mental 



HABITUAL ACTIONS — AUTOMATIC OR NOT? 153 

acts. An accomplished master of the piano, for example, 
will play at sight the most intricate music put into his 
hands, as well, or nearly as well, as he will play it the fifti- 
eth time. Now the combinations are, and must be, new 
to him. The same may be said in the case of the accom- 
plished extemporaneous speaker. The series of rapid 
changes are all novel, and yet must be accompanied with 
distinct intellectual efforts and volitions. I do not wonder, 
however, at your obstinate defence of your theory ; for as 
I look at a musician before some grand organ, — see how 
rapid and complicated are his movements, — how his fingers 
fly over the keys, — how they strike the most complex har- 
monies, yet find time to draw out this stop, and shut that, 
Avhile legs and feet are flinging out right and left at the 
pedals, — the whole man looking as if he were about to 
explode into space imder some tremendous internal forces, 
— I am ready to ask whether it can be that Mind is present 
at every act, and decrees a distinct volition for it ; and, if 
so, whether she ought not to be able to give a more dis- 
tinct account of the matter ? Yet as to the rapidity^ surely 
I have answered that y and as to the want of consciousness, 
why, if poor Mind has been thus worried and flustered, is 
it any wonder that she does not distinctly trace her own 
acts ? ^Yell, we must leave it there ; but almost anything 
seems to me more • reasonable than that in those cases of 
rapid combinations of our habitual acts, which imply novelty 
at each step, and which seem to involve the highest mental 
activity. Mind is asleep, and only the body awake ! 

But it is plaguy strange that Mind can give no more in- 
telligible account of the matter, it being her own affair 
entirely. 

Ever yours, 

K, E. 11. G. 



154 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 



LETTER XXXVI. 

TO THE SAME. 

Sutton Colefield, October, 1845. 
My deak Feiend, 

Instead of an attentive reconsideration of our old met- 
aphysical problem, based on the curious experiences I sent 
you, you have favored me with a lecture on my late hours ; 
and assure me that if I went to bed earlier, and rose earlier, 
I should not have any such experiences. On my word, it 
is sharp practice to make such an exceedingly irrelevant 
use of my arguments against myself! 

I quite agree with you, my dear friend, in all you can 
say in praise of early rising ; proho raeliora / and have 
done so in this matter any time these twenty years. I 
believe firmly there is scarcely one habit which youth can 
form so important as that of early rising, — so conducive to 
health of body, to a vigorous old age, to regularity and 
method, to success in life, — in short, one might go on to 
the " nineteenth head '' of discourse on this subject; sol 
will sj^are you, and say Amen ! 

He who begins late in the morning, and bustles about in 
a vain eifort to overtake the clock, is in the condition of 
the good man who said he had lost a quarter of an hour 
and was afterwards running after it all day and could not 
catch it. 

" Fine se^itiments ! " you will say. Oh ! if you are for 
fine sentiment, I can give it far finer, and in the purest 
Johnsonese, as Mr. Macaulay would say ; — as thus ; " The 
hours which are wasted in superfluous slumber must be de- 
ducted from the sum total of mortal existence ; nor is it 
paradoxical to affirm that the man of eighty who should 
compute the time which he has thus subtracted from his life, 



EARLY RISING — PREACHING AND PRACTICE. 155 

ought not to imagine himself to have passed beyond the 
hmits of threescore years and ten." 

" Then I am ten years yomiger than I thought myself," 
I am afraid an incorrigible old sinner in this kind would be 
apt to say. — But it is easy to preach : the great moralist 
I have just ventured to mimic for a moment was preaching 
on this very topic all his days, and never reformed himself. 

Nevertheless all you say is true enough ; and yet — and 
yet — oh ! the slavery of hahit ! I have been lecturing 
myself for twenty years, and must say I have ever found 
myself a most attentive auditor, and still it is in vain. How- 
ever, I believe I should not be so quiet under self-reproach 
if I did not believe that I had sufficient excuses. " There," 
you will say, " that will do ; I have no hope of you." 
Nay ; strike, but hear me. (Conscience, be quiet, I say ; 
what a clamor you are making ! — I can't hear myself 
speak for you ; ahem ! — ) I protest that my example, at 
least for many years past, has afforded not the shadow of 
an excuse for any one's following it. I cannot say I have 
wasted my time in sleep ; I have not for these twenty years 
had sleep enough ; I rarely get so many as six hours' sleep 
in the four-and-twenty. 

Next ; I generally go to bed at very late hours, or rather 
very early — 1, 2, 3, a. m., as the case may be. Aye, you 
will perhaps say, that is a reason why you sleep so ill. 
Stop a minute. I have tried both early and late hours ; 
and, in either case, have often been visited with a sleepless- 
ness so intense, that I have been obliged to get up, and 
read during the rest of the night. Many a cold winter's 
night have I risen and lighted a fire, rather than remain 
turning from side to side in vivid wakefulness without 
something to divert thought. To let the mill go round 
without grist — this is desperate work, let me tell you, for 
the mental machinery ! But, as a physiologist, you know 



15G THE GREYSON LETTERS. ** 

that well enough. Under such circumstances, do not 
blame me if I take sleep when I. can get it. Lastly, I 
cannot say that when I have indulged in — what is cer- 
tainly very luxurious — an hour or two of matin meditation 
in bed, it has been time wasted, or often sj^ent in unprofita- 
ble thought. On the contrary, I am conscious, in common 
with many much greater men, that my mind has never 
wrought so freely as then, nor presented to me so many 
thoughts I should wish to retain. Unhappily, they often 
will not come again, when I have once risen. 

If it be said this is a dangerous apology, I answer that it 
is no apology at all ; it is a simple fact, of which I am not 
ashamed. Honi soit. Each man must judge for himself. 
To me, I say, such late hours are needful, and, waking or 
sleeping, are not hours of sloth. So that you see, like 
Daniel O'Rourke, I am a man more to be pitied than blamed 
among you. I acknowledge that I often find things going 
so wrong, — such miserable dislocation of the engagements 
of the day, (owing to breakfast always being a " movable 
feast " between eight and ten) — that I cannot quite ap- 
pease conscience ; but then, when the jade has once got the 
habit of complaining, she will often go on maundering and 
muttering in the most unreasonable manner. 

I have no doubt you enjoyed your view of the sunrise in 
your recent journey. And so you would have me suppose 
that you have often seen it, and are pleased to suppose that 
I never have ! As to you, — if you had often seen it, you 
would never have broken out into these raptures; it is 
the rarity of the spectacle, my fiiend, that has made you 
so eloquent. From your transports, I am induced to ques- 
tion whether you ever saw it before in your life. As to me, 
let me tell you I have seen it several times. Yes, several; 
once on the top of a coach, in the olden times, when I was 
travelling all nighty — once on board a steamer in the same 



EARLY RISING — PREACHING AND PRACTICE. 157 

predicament^ — once when I slept on Snowclon on purpose, — 
and once again on the Righi. Pray don't suppose that no 
one ever saw the rising sun except yourself. But it is too 
glorious a spectacle to be seen often ; familiarity would 
breed contempt ; the thing would become too cheap. Let 
us, my fine fellow, economize, and be chary of, such 
delights ! 

I had a dear friend, who ingeniously proved that though 
very late in the morning for many years, ha was always an 
early riser. He said that, in his youth, he had risen for 
years much too early — four and half-past four, a. m. ; when 
I knew him, nine and half-past nine was his hour ; but he 
contended that, striking " a mean " between his excesses 
and defects, he still reckoned that he rose about seven reg- 
ularly. I am not quite sure, if I were to take " the mean " 
of my own doings in this way, that Z could not prove my- 
self a regular early riser too. 

I remember once hearing an aged relative expostulate 
with a youth, his nejohew, on his lying in bed ; he pleaded 
the difficulty of getting up. " Difficulty ! " the other said ; 
" there is no difficulty in it. I have risen at five for these 
forty years, and I could not lie in bed after that." " My 
dear uncle," said the young scapegrace, "and I cannot 
get up. If you want to measure my difficulty in getting 
up, you ought to lie in bed till nine. It is really no credit 
in you to be an early riser ! " 

However, in spite of all the badinage in this letter, be 

assured that none can be convinced more deeply than I, of 

the excellence of your advice in general, and of its futility 

to me in particular. Now is not that just what all your 

patients tell you ? 

Ever yours, 

E. E. 11. G. 

14 



158 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 



LETTER XXXYIIo 

TO THE SAME. 

Nov. 1845. 

My dear MAS0?>r, 

For "auld lang sjTie's" sake, I am again going to dis- 
course to you of one of our old metaphysical problems ; 
though I am afraid that, as before, you will prove yourself 
unworthy of our College aspirations, refuse to deal with 
any such knotty questions, and treat me with a musty lec- 
ture on the duty of going to bed early, and, what is harder, 
rising early. However, I heard the other day as pretty an 
argument as you could desire to hear, on a summer's day, 
on that old question, — " Does the mind always think, even 
in sleep f " 

" Between whom ? " you will say. Well, between my- 
self and me ; and, strange as it may seem, never were two 
people of more opposite opinions. " And how did it end ? " 
In that charming haze, my friend, in which nearly all dis- 
putes that concern that elaborately self-ignorant thing, the 
Mind of man, are so apt to end. I assure you, as I listened, 
I seemed to doubt of, and to acquiesce in, each ingenious 
argument ; in short, felt tossed to and fro, like a shuttlecock 
between two battledores — only that i" unluckily was both 
shuttlecock and the battledoors. What a mystery of mys- 
teries that same mind is ! That it should ask itself — and, 
for the life of it, cannot tell itself — whether it is always 
conscious or not ! That it should be equally ignorant of 
a thousand other things about its own self ? How humil- 
iating, that that which maps the heavens, tracks the j^lanets, 
calculates eclipses, covers the earth with the monuments 
of its science and art, should thus grope, and stumble, and 
blunder, when it crosses its own dark threshold ; nay, dis- 



DIALOGUE BETWEEN "MYSELF AND ME." 159 

pute everlastingly with itself and others, what it is, and 
where and how it exists ! Surely we ought to be modest 
people. To think of one's mind asserting against other 
minds, and often against itself in different moods, — some- 
times with ludicrous dubiety, as often with more ludicrous 
dogmatism, — the most contradictory conclusions respecting 
its very self! To think that Mind does not know whether 
it always tliinks ; whether, for half its time, it is conscious 
or unconscious, busy or idle ! , 

The dialogue began something in this way. I, who felt 
disposed to think that the mind always thinks, even in the 
deepest slumber, — that is, dreams even when it does not 
remember it, — asked myself, — 

"Do you not acknowledge that we know nothing of 
either matter or mind, except from their properties ; the 
one made known to us by our sensations, and the other by 
our consciousness ? " 

" I do," said JVlind, with the confidence of an oracle, 
though thus avomng its ignorance of itself. 

" If you were asked what Matter was, would you not say, 
that it is that which possesses solidity, divisibility, impene- 
trability, and so on ? " enumerating the other essential quaU- 
ties of matter. 

" I should," said Mind. 

" And in like manner would you not say. Mind is 
that which possesses the qualities of thought and 
feeling ? " 

" I should," still said Mind. 

" If, now, you were asked what matter was, when di- 
vested of those essential properties, — stripped of solidity, 
and so forth, — what would you say ? Would you not say 
that if it ceased to have such essential properties, that 
which you call matter existed no longer — that it was an- 
nihilated?" 



160 THE GREYSON LETTEIiS. 

" I should," Mind said. 

" Then ought you not to say the same of mind, if its es- 
sential properties — those by which alone you know that 
it exists at all — were taken away from it ? Ought you 
not, therefore, to say that mind is anniliilated every time 
you sleep without thinking ; and created afresh every time 
you wake from such a state ? " 

I really thought it was a very pretty little dilemma ; 
l)ut Mind could argue though it could not prove, and was 
not going to be balked by such a trifle as the loss of its 
essential properties. "Nay," said Mind, "the poioers of 
thought remain in me, though not exerted^ 

" Nay," said I ; " you surely are not impudent enough 
to pretend that you are conscious that you have powers 
while you say you have absolutely no consciousness ? But 
let that pass. — Would you say, then, if you could conceive 
of such a thinsj as matter denuded of what is its essential 
property of solidity, that the potver of solidity was there, 
only no longer exercised P Would you not rather say that, 
for aught you could conceive, matter, which you knew only 
by such j^roperties as this, existed no longer ? " 

" I certainly should," sighed Mind. 

" Then you ought to say the same of mind." 

Argument the first ; which made me think that the mind 
always thinks, though Mind itself protested against it. 
But Mind retorted it very cleverly. It began to illustrate 
the point, first, from chemical facts Avhich show that heat, 
for example, is present in bodies, though latent ; and that 
the same substance may exist in allotrojnc forms ; never- 
theless the matter did not seem quite plain to me. But it 
ingeniously proceeded to say, — 

" Do you not think that the mind exists before it acts f 
The mind in the embryo, for example, — of the ' rational 
jinimal,' the moment it comes into the world, — must it 



A DIALOGUE "BETWEEN MYSELF AND ME." 161 

not already exist before it acts ? and does it not wait to 
exercise thought and feeling till, by a slow process, the 
senses aid its development ? If so, does not the mind ex- 
ist, though its essential powers be dormant ? And if so, 
may it not be in just such a state in deep sleep ? " 

This seemed a staggerer, I confess ; but I was a bold 
metaphysician, and I scrupled not to rejoin, — forgetting 
the rebuke I had administered to Mind for falling into a 
like blunder, — " If, by saying that the mind of the embryo 
or of the newly-born infant, cannot thinks you mean that 
it cannot understand the ' Principia ' of Newton or Mil- 
ton's ' Paradise Lost,' I gi-ant it ; but I deny that it does 
not manifest its essential properties^ though not in perfec- 
tion. Mind feels, and that is one of the forms of con- 
sciousness ; — it has sensations." 

" Surely," said Mind, slyly, " you have not the impudence 
to pretend that you are conscious that you had feelings in 
states of which you are wholly unconscious. But let that 
pass, as you said to me. — Pray, had you thoughts in that 
state as well as feelings ? " 

"Yes, and thoughts^'' said I, boldly, — for I was not 
going to give up my argument for a trifle, — " thoughts, 
though very rudimentary, of course ; for how can there be 
sensatio7i without thought f So that though," I continued, 
with exquisite logical ^^recision, " though, in the order of 
thought, the existence of the mind is before its action^ yet 
in fact its existence and its action are synchronous ; and 
the one begins when the other does." 

Argument second ; — and still I seemed to think that 
the argument for peii^etual thought had the best of it, 
though I confess I felt that myself and I were whimsically 
jierplexed about a matter which ought surely to have been 
as plain as consciousness could make it ! 

Here we left the dark maze of essences and essential 

14* 



162 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

properties, and embryo states, and came out into the open 
champaign of facts, and the inductive philosophy. " Now," 
thought I, " we shall be able to see." Xot a whit. Luck- 
less Mind! Bacon might as well not have written, 
for any j^ower his j^hilosophy gives of solving such a ques- 
tion, — which, however, would seem to need no solving at 
all, but a simj^le reference to every man's own conscious- 
ness. But now for /acts. 

" If," said I, in a didactic and patronizing way, as though 
I were not talking to myself and striving to enlighten my 
own ignorance, " If you take notice. Mind, you will find, on 
awaking from sleep, that, on instantly reverting to con- 
sciousness, you have always been thinkmg^ dreaming of 
something, and will immediately recall it." 

But Mind, after a minute's reflection, protested that it 
had no such uniform consciousness — that it thought it often 
recollected having been awakened out of profound sleep, 
with an utter blank of memory when it sought for what it 
was last thinking about. Here was a fix ; Mind not know- 
ing whether it had been thinking the moment before or 
not ! " Oh ! Mind, Mind," thought I, innocently, " what a 
fool you are making of yourself ! " '^£\\e first person would 
have been more j^roper. 

" But again," said Mind, " as to that last argument, sup- 
posing the fact just as you state, it proves nothing; the 
mind is so active that long trains of thought, which seem to 
have occupied hours, may pass through the mind in a min- 
ute, — which I often experience when I take an afternoon 
nap ; I seem to have slept for hours, and my watch tells me 
I have slept but for five minutes ; thus the supposed recol- 
lected dream might all be manufactured in the very instant 
between sleeping and waking." I thought again, and could 
not deny that it might be so. "And yet," retorted I, 
" though you suppose the mind so active as to crowd ages 



ON NOVEL READING. 163 

into moments, you suppose it is actually dormant during the 
greater part of every night? And again, — granting, as 
you say, that you can spin, what seems to be six hours' 
dreaming, in a minute, — you cannot tell, except by the 
watch^ whether you have been a minute or six hours about 
it, and often think the last when you have been asleep but 
for an instant ! Of what value," said I, complacently, as 
if I were no way concerned in the rebuke, "is the testi- 
mony of one that is thus caught napping ? In short. Mind, 
to tell you a bit of my mind, I do not believe you know a 
word about the matter." 

Mind smiled, and said it knew just as much as I did ; 
which recalled me to the most paradoxical fact of all — 
that it is we ourselves who in such controversies ask our- 
selves what is our own consciousness, and, instead of giving 
an intelligible answer, can only stare at ourselves idioti- 
cally. .... 

Yours faithfully, 

K. E. H. G. 



LETTER XXXVIII. 

TO MISS MAEY GEEYSOIST. 

Sutton, July 7, 1846. 
My dear Niece, 

I am going to write you a long letter ; but I scarcely 
think it will be pleasant to you to read it, — for it is to 
chide you. Yet> as you know I should not chide you ex- 
cept for your good, or what I believed your good, I hope 
you will read these lines attentively, for your loving uncle's 
sake. 

I saw, my dear, with regret, during my recent visit, that 
you are too fond — far too fond — of novel reading. There ; 



164 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

I see your imploring look, and hear the expostulation, " Oh, 
uncle ! — do you really think so ? " Of course I think so, 
Mary, or I should not say so, for I never say what I do not 
think. 

But I certainly do not expect to hear from you, my love, 
— for you are a girl of sense (be pleased to recollect, again, 
that I do not say what I do not think, — will not that pro- 
pitiate you?), — the answer I once received from a young 
lady to whom I addressed a similar expostulation. " I sup- 
pose, then," said she, " you would disapprove of all novel 
reading ? " That, thought I, is an answer perfectly worthy 
of one whose logic has been fed on novels. " If," said I to 
her, " I were to blame a lad for eating too much, or too vo- 
raciously, or filling his stomach with tarts and sugar-j^lums, 
would you infer that therefore I meant that he was not to 
eat at all, or that pastry and sweatmeats were absolutely 
forbidden him ? " 

No, I am far from thinking that novels may not be in- 
nocently read ; — so far from that, I think they may be 
heneficially read. But all depends, as in the case of the 
tarts and sugar-plums, on the quality and quantity. 

The imagination is a faculty given us by God, as much 
as any other, and if it be not develoj^ed, our minds are 
maimed. Now, works of fiction, — of a high order, I mean, 
such as the best of Walter Scott's or Miss Edgeworth's, — 
healthfully stimulate this faculty ; and in measure, there- 
fore, they should be read. 

Taste should be cultivated, — and fictitious works, in- 
spired by real genius, have a beneficial tendency that way. 

Novels may, and often do, inculcate important lessons of 
life and conduct, in a more j^leasing form than the simply 
didactic style admits of. 

When based on knowledge of human nature, and devel- 
oped with dramatic skill, a novel may teach many an im- 



ON NOVEL READING. 165 

poi-tant truth of moral philosophy more effectively than an 
abstruse treatise on it. 

When the style of novels is what it ought to be, — and 
what it will be, if they are worth reading, — they tend (al- 
ways an important part of education) to add to our knowl- 
edge of language, and our command over it. 

Lastly, as we must all have some mental relaxation (and 
if the greater part of our hours be diligently given to duty, 
we are both entitled to it and in need of it), such relaxa- 
tion is easily and legitimately found in the occasional peru- 
sal of a judicious work of fiction. 

You see how liberal I am, and that it is no old, musty, 
strait-laced critic that sj^eaks to you : therefore " perpend 
my words." 

Everything, you observe, depends on quality and quan- 
tity. These must determine whether the novels you read 
be mental aliment or mental poison. Now, as to the y?rs^, 
I have no hesitation in saying that the immense majority 
of novels have no tendency to fulfil any of the ends I have 
pointed out ; they are mere rubbish ; and, forgive me, sev- 
eral of those I recently saw in your hands from your circu- 
lating library deserve no other character. For my part, I 
should not care if some Caliph Omar treated all novels — 
except some three thousand volumes or so — as the original 
Caliph treated the Alexandrian Library, and made a huge 
bonfire of them. " Three thousand volumes ! " you will 
say ; " why that is at the rate of a novel a week for twenty 
years ! You are liberal, indeed." 

Very true ; but I did not say you would do well to read 
them all, though as many may be worth reading. And let 
me tell you, that you may infer something else from my ad- 
mission. With so many more good novels at command 
than you can possibly read, will you not be utterly inex- 
cusable if you indulge in any of the trumpery of which I 



166 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

have been just speaking ? Kely upon it, my dear, that the 
reading of the second and third and fourth-rate class of 
novels not only does not secure any of the ends of which 
I have spoken above, but has a directly contrary tendency. 
These books enfeeble the intellect — impoverish the imag- 
ination — vulgarize taste and style — give false or distorted 
views of life and human nature, — and, what is perhaps 
worst of all, waste that precious time which might be given 
to sohd mental improvement. I assure you I have often 
been astonished and grieved at the manner in which young 
minds, originally capable of better things, have been injured 
by continual dawdhng over the slip-slop of inferior novels. 
They sink insensibly to the level of such books ; and, how 
can it be otherwise ? — for this pernicious appetite, " which 
grows by what it feeds on," prevents the mind's coming in 
contact with anything better, and these wretched comi^osi- 
tions become the standard. Observe that these minds are 
enfeebled, not only in tone, — for that would result from 
reading too much of any novels, even the best, just as the 
stomach would get disordered from eating too much pastry, 
though the Queen's daintiest cooks might make it; — but I 
mean enfeebled, degraded in taste, — in the j^ercej^tion of 
the True and the Beautiful in works of high intellectual art. 
Such impoverished minds talk with rajDture of the interest- 
ing " characters " in these volumes of miserable fatuities ; of 
some " charming young Montague," or some " sweet Emma 
Montfort " (both more insipid than the " white of an ^^^^ "), 
who talk reams of soft nonsense, and get involved in absurd 
adventures which set all probability at defiance. You 
young ladies often melt into tears at maudlin scenes, which 
to a just perception or a masculine taste could only pro- 
duce laughter ; condescend to weigh the merits of slip-slop 
sentiment or descriptive platitudes beneath all criticism; 
and sagely compare the power of the three vols, of the inane 



ON NOVEL READING. 167 

"Julia Montresor, or the Broken heart," with the equally- 
inane three vols, of " Pizarro, or the Bandit's Cave ; " when 
the only question with any reader of sense (if any such 
reader could wade through the pages of either) is as to 
which of the two works is most utterly bankrupt in knowl- 
edge, taste, character, style, and, in fact, every element that 
can redeem a work of fiction fi-om being utterly contempti- 
ble and intolerable ! 

And this depravity of taste, believe me, may go on to 
any extent ; for, as the appetite for reading such works be- 
comes more and more voracious and indiscriminate, it leaves 
neither power nor inclination to a23preciate better books. 
The mind at last becomes so vitiated that it craves and is 
satisfied with anything in the shape of a story ^ — a series 
of fictitious adventures, no matter how put together ; no 
matter whether the events be probably conceived, the char- 
acters justly drawn, the descriptions true to nature, the dia- 
logue spirited, or the contrary. So preposterous is the 
interest that may be taken in a mere tram of fictitious inci- 
dent, quite apart fi'om the genius which has conceived or 
adorned it, that many a young lady will, go through nearly 
the same story a thousand times in a thousand difierent 
novels, — the names alone being altered ! I assure you it 
is an inscrutable mystery to me, my dear, how they can 

still endure that charming Miss , whom, under a 

hundred aliases they have already married to that sweet 
young gentleman with an equal number of names, in spite 
of the opposition of parents on both sides, dangerous rivals, 
and the most impossible hair-breadth " 'scapes by flood and 
field." 

You will, perhaps, say, (what is very true,) that it is pos- 
sible to get so entangled in a mesh of fictitious incidents, 
that though you know, or soon suspect, the novel to be un- 
worthy of perusal, you do not like to lay it down till the 



168 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

denouement. Do you ask how you may break the spell, 
and escaj^e ? Then I will tell you, provided you will prom- 
ise to act on my advice. Read any such novel, my dear, 
Hebrew-fashion, that is, backwards ; go at once to the end 
of the third volume — and marry oif the hero and heroine, 
or drowTi them, or hang the one, and break the heart of the 
other, as maybe most meet to you and the writer. If, after 
having thus secured your catastrophe, you cannot find heart 
to " plod your weary way " through the intervening desert 
of words, dejDcnd upon it you will lose nothing by throwing 
the book aside at once. And, further, you may take this 
also for a rule ; — if you do not feel, as you read on, that 
what you read is worth reading for its own sake^ — that you 
could read it over again with pleasure ; — if you do not feel 
that the incidents are naturally conceived, the scenes vividly 
described, the dialogue dramatic and piquant, the characters 
sharply drawn, be sure the book is not worth sixpence. No 
fiction is, intellectually^ worth anybody's reading, that has 
not considerable merit as a work of art ; and such works 
are ever felt to be worth reading again, often with increas- 
ed interest. It is indeed the truest test of all the highest 
efibrts of this kind ; — new beauties steal out upon us on 
each perusal. Dip anywhere into the " Macbeth " of Shak- 
speare, or the " Antiquary " of Walter Scott, and you still 
find that, though you know the whole from beginning to 
end, the force of painting, the truth, yet originality of the 
sentiments, — the spirit of the dialogue, — the beauties of 
imagery and expression, — still lure you to read on, wher- 
ever you chance to open, with ever renewed delight. 

Now let me add that if, for a little while, you never read 
any fiction but such as will bear to be often read, you will 
need no caution against any of an inferior kind. Your taste 
will soon become pure and elevated, and you will nauseate 
a bad novel as you would a dose of tartar emetic. 



ON NOVEL HEADING. 169 

I shall ever feel grateful to the memory of Walter Scott. 
I happened to fall in with his best novels when quite a boy ; 
and I never could endure afterwards the ordinary run of 
this class of literature. When Laidlaw w'as acting as aman- 
uensis to Scott in the composition of " Ivanhoe," he could 
not help congratulating the author on the happy effects 
which his beautiful fictions w'ould have, by sweeping clean 
the circulating libraries of infinite rubbish. " Sir Walter 
Scott's eyes," he tells us, " filled -with tears." And no 
doubt his fictions had considerable effect in elevatinc: the 
taste of that novel-reading generation ; but a " new gene- 
ration, w^hich know not" Walter are being introduced to 
tons of the ephemeral current nonsense before they have 
the means of institutmg a comjDarison. Be not you one of 
them. . . . 

By the way, I may tell you that I fell in with " Ivanhoe," 
at thirteen, on a bright July morning in my midsummer 
holidays. I had been sent to the house of a relative, about 
a mile off, with some message, I forget wdiat ; I found the 
family out ; but I found " Ivanhoe " at home — it was lying 
conveniently at hand ; I looked into it, became absorbed, 
and spent the whole day in the garden reading it, utterly 
forgetful of dinner, tea, and supper, and never stopped till I 
had finished it ! There are, among Scott's fictions, several 
I admire much more now, but none ever did me such ser- 
vice. 

Ever your loving Uncle, 

R. E. II. G. 

15 



170 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

LETTER XXXIX 

TO THE SAME. 



July IG, 1816. 



And now, my dear Mary, I come to the second " head " 
of my discourse ; so hnagine yourself in church, and that 
your good clergyman is sending (as I doubt not he often 
does, you monkey) an admonitory glance towards your pew, 
as he arrives at the same critical stage in his sermon. My 
second " head," then, is to show that you may read too 
many even of the very best novels. " True," you will say 
" if I read nothing else." Aye, and very far within that 
limit may you read too many ; let me add that any excess 
has a tendency to make you relish reading nothing else. 

I have said that, in moderation, they are useful to devel- 
ope and stimulate the imagination ; but the imagination may 
be too much stimulated, and too much developed, — " de- 
veloped " till it at length stunts all the other faculties, and 
" stimulated " till it is not exhilarated merely, but tipsy. 
The severer faculties demand a proportionate culture, and 
a more sedulous one ; for to cultivate the imagination, in 
whatever degree it is susceptible of it at all, is the easiest 
thing in nature ; the difficulty is to train it justly. Some 
hardy flowers will bloom in any soil, and with little or no 
culture — and so will those of fancy. 

The greater 2:)art of your time should be given to solid 
studies or practical duties ; this should be your rule. As 
relaxation, to be of any value, should be moderate, so nov- 
els must not claim much of your time. They should be the 
condiments and spices, the confectionary of your ordinary 
diet; not the substantial joints, not \\\q piece de resistance. 
You might as well attempt to live on creams and sylla- 
bubs. 



ON NOVEL READING. 171 

But you will say, perhaps, " Is it possible to read a novel 
by chapter ? Is it in human nature to leave off in the very 
middle of that critical adventure in which the hero saves the 
life of the heroine, or close the book just in the middle of 
his declaration, and without listening to the delicious lov- 
ers' nonsense which passes on that occasion, or finding out 
how it all ends ? " To me^ my dear, it would be very easy ; 
or rather I should find a difiiculty perhaps, in general, in 
not skipping — pray don't look so cross — all that same de- 
licious nonsense. But I admit that it is difficult for many 
young ladies to do so ; or for any novel reader, when the 
fiction has real merit ; — to most young novel readers the 
task would be impossible. 

And so, that you may not say I counsel you to perform 
" impossibilities," my dear, take my advice. Do not tie 
yourself to any such restriction as a chapter at a time. " O, 
delightful ! " you will say. Stay a minute. 

I would have you read novels only so moderately that 
there shall be no occasion for restricting yourself when you 
do read them. Let them be read now and then as a reward 
of strenuous exertion, or for having mastered some difficult 
book ; or let them be reserved for visits and holidays. Do 
not, — if I may use a metaphor of that vulgar kind I have 
already so frequently employed, — do not have a novel 
always in cut. Keep it for an hour of well-earned leisure, 
or as a relief after arduous duty, and then read it without 
stint. This occasional full meal will then do you no harm ; 
and, depend on it, the flare will be doubly delicious, from 
the keenness of the appetite, the previous fast, and the rari- 
ty of the indulgence. But you will say, " What shall I do 
for my daily hour or so of rightful mental relaxation, t.o 
which you admit I am entitled ? " Well, if you will take 
my advice, you will ordinarily choose — and oh ! the infinite 
treasures, which neither you nor I can fully exhaust, litera- 



172 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

ture spreads before us ! — something, wLicli, while it fully 
answers the purpose of healthful and innocent mental amuse- 
ment, will not hold attention too long enthralled, or lead 
you to turn to other less exciting compositions with a sigh. 
Take, for example, some beautiful poem ; or a paper of one 
of our British Essayists ; or an interesting book of travels ; 
or an article of Macaulay, who, of almost all writers, com- 
bines, in greatest perfection, instruction and delight. The 
names of Milton, Gray, Cowper, Addison, Johnson, Crabbe, 
and a thousand more, show what a boundless field of selec- 
tion lies before you. 

And now do you want a practical rule as to when you 
have been reading novels (however good) too much or too 
long? Here, then, is an infallible one. When ordinary 
books of a sober and instructive character, are read with 
disrelish ; Avhen, for example, a work of well-written history 
seems to you, as compared with the piquant and vivid de- 
tails of fiction, as if you were looking on the wrong side of a 
piece of tapestry ; when you cannot away with dull, sober 
reality ; when you return to practical duties with reluctance 
and the work-a-day world looks sombre and sad-colored to 
you, rest assured that you have been lingering too long in 
fairy-land, and indulging too much in day-dreams. And, 
further, remember this ; — that as long as you are liable to 
any such unlucky consciousness, you have not carried the 
culture of your intellectual powers or your practical habits 
to the right point ; for the moment that is done, such a re- 
sult becomes impossible. A mind thus equipped for life and 
duty, can indulge in fiction only within certain moderate 
limits ; for purposes of innocent imbending, of legitimate 
amusement. Beyond that point fiction cloys; and the heal- 
thy mind, so far from repining that it cannot live longer in 
the Fool's Paradise, — or, if you like not that harsh term, 
— among Elysian shadows, is conscious of as strong a desire 



ON NOVEL READING. 173 

to come back to the regions of daylight and reality, as the 
inveterate novel reader feels to dream on in cloud-land. It 
sighs for a return to the substantial and the real ; and can 
no more live in fiction than it can bear to be always danc- 
ing polkas, or playing eternally at back-gammon. Perse- 
vere for a certain time, — for the next two or three years, 
— I thmk you are now eighteen (you need not blush to ac- 
knowledge your age yet), — in disciplining your mind, and 
you are safe, I will answer for it, from the too dominant sway 
of any, even the greatest, enchanters of fiction. But my 
strongest reasons of all for the advice I am giving you, are 
yet behind, and I must reserve them for another letter. 

Ever yours, 

K. E. H. G. 



LETTER XL. 

TO THE SAME. 



July 29, 1816. 



My DEAR Mary, 

I now proceed to those " stronger " reasons to which I 
alluded in my last. I have reserved them for the close of 
my " sermon," because they are the most important. 

All inordinate indulgence in works of fiction, then, tends 
to pervert our views of life instead of enlarging them, 
which, if judiciously chosen, and read in moderation, they 
will do ; and to quench benevolence, -which, under similar 
restrictions, they will tend to cherish. 

The excessive indulgence perverts, I say, views of life. 
The young mind is but too prone of itself to live in a 
world of fancy ; indeed, in one sense, it is necessary that 
the imagination should thus be ever creating the future for 
us, or we should not act at all ; but then its influence must 
be well regulated by a due regard to the laws of the prob- 

10* 



174 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

ahle^ or we shall lase the present and the future too : the 
present, in dreaming of an irrational future ; and the 
future, becai^e we have not prepared ourselves for any 
possible future by the proper employment of the present. 
If a young gentleman or young lady's mind, of any intel- 
ligence, could be laid bare, and all the fantastical illusions 
it has ever indulged exposed to the world, I am afraid it 
would fairly expire in an agony of shame at the disclosure ; 
it would be often found, quite apart from novel reading, to 
have indulged largely in the veriest chimeras of hope and 
fancy. But then this tendency, difficult to control at the 
best, is ajit to be fatally strengthened by undue indulgence 
in fictitious literature. If a too early love-aifair and a cir- 
culating library should both concur to exasperate the mal- 
ady, you may look for stark " mid-summer madness." — I 
fear that anticipations of unlooked-for windfalls of for- 
tune, — of success achieved without toil, — of fame got for 
the longing after it, — of brides a few degrees above angels, 
and husbands in whom Apollo and Adonis are happily com- 
bined, — are a not uncommon result of dwelling too long 
in congenial fiction. Nor do I at all doubt that a thousand 
instances of failure in professional life of sudden and im- 
prudent engagements, of ridiculous or ill-assorted matches, 
may be ascribed to the same cause. At all events, this j^er- 
nicious practice prolongs and intensifies the natural tendency 
to day-dreaming. Had it not been for this, the spell would 
have been broken — the imaginative sleep-walker awakened 
by the rude shocks and jogs of practical life. But the 
dream and the walk are often continued too long, and the 
unhappy somnambulist vanishes — over a precipice ! 

But still more pernicious is the effect of this bad habit 
on benevolence. This may seem strange, but it is very true 
nevertheless. I grant that sympathy and sensibility depend 
in a very high degree on the activity of the imagination — 



ON NOVEL READING. 175 

on our power of vividly picturing to ourselves the joys and 
sorrows of others ; but do not hastily conclude tliat excess 
in reading fiction, provided that fiction be a just jncture of 
life, (wliich I now assume,) can, whatever harm it may do 
in other directions, do none in this. It may quicken sym- 
pathy and strengthen sensibility, — nay, in one sense it will 
do so, — and yet, I stick to my j^aradox notwithstanding; 
namely, that it tends to weaken j^ractical benevolence, and 
may end in quenching it altogether. 

However, I must make the preliminary remark, that, even 
if the habit did not render benevolence less active, sensi- 
bility is of no value except as it is under the direction of 
judgment and reason; Avhich presupposes, therefore, the 
harmonious culture of all the faculties and susceptibilities 
of our nature. Apart from a Avell balanced mind, neither 
prompt sympathy nor acute sensibility are of much value, 
and often only inspire visionary, whimsical, perhaps very 
sublime, but also very impracticable, projects. 

But I would not have you ignorant, my dear, that the 
indulgence in question is liable to be attended with a much 
more serious evil than this. To be truly benevolent in 
heart, and strive to show it, even though the mode were so 
absurd as to prove that the heart had robbed the head of 
all its brains, would be something; — to be laughed at as 
an idiotic angel would still have some consolation. But 
the mischief is, that a morbid indulgence of sympathy and 
sensibility is but too likely to end in extinguishing benev- 
olence. I imagine I hear you say, " Sensibility to distress, 
and sympathy w^ith it, quench benevolence ! this is, indeed, 
a hard lesson ; who can hear it ? " It is true notwithstand- 
ing; and as S}Tnpathy with distress, — fictitious distress, 
you understand, — and sensibility to it, increases, active 
benevolence may be in precisely inverse ratio. 

If you ask hoio this can be, I answer, that it depends on 



176 THE GIIEYSON LETTEliS. 

a curious law of our mental mechanism, wliicli was pointed 
out by Bishop Butler, — with whose writings, by the bye, 
I hope you will be better acquainted some time Avithin the 
next two years, and which will do you a world more good 
than a whole Bodleian library of novels. Among many 
other curious facts in man's moral anatomy, which the great 
philosopher lays bare, are these two, — which by the Avay 
show distinctly for what God designed us, and what course 
we ought to take in our own culture, — " That, from our 
very faculty of habits^ passive im^^ressions, by being repeated^ 
grow toealcer^ and that practical habits are formed and 
strengthened by repeated actsP 

But I find my sermon has been so long, that, like other 
preachers, I must, if I continue, huddle up the last, though 
most important part, in haste ; therefore, as they sometimes 
do, I will reserve what I have to say for another discourse, 
begging you, my fair hearer, to ponder on tlie words I have 
just transcribed for you — if so be you may spell out their 
meaning, and jirofit thereby. 

Yours affectionately, 

K. E. H. G. 



LETTER XLI 

TO THE SAME. 



Aug. 6, 1846. 



My DEAR Mary, 

I resume the "thread" of my last discourse by expound- 
ing the seeming paradox with which it closed. " Who 
can be more tender-hearted," perhaps you will say, " than 
heroes and heroines in novels, or more ready to cry than an 
inveterate novel reader ? " Nevertlieless be pleased to re- 
member that however prompt the fancy may be to depict 



ON NOVEL READING. 177 

distress, or the eye to attest he genuineness of the emotion 
that distress has awakened, they indicate what may be 
merely passive states of mind ; and no benevolence is 
worth a farthing that does not proceed to action. Now, 
the frequent repetition of that species of emotion which 
fiction stimulates tends to prevent benevolence, because it 
is out of proportion to corresponding action ; it is like that 
frequent " going over the theory of virtue in our own 
thouglits," which, as Butler says, so far from being auxiliary 
to it, may be obstructive of it. 

As long as the balance is maintained between the stimu- 
lus given to imagination with the consequent emotions^ on 
the one hand, and our practical habits, which those emo- 
tions are chiefly designed to form and strengthen, on the 
other, so long, I say, the stimulus of the imagination will 
not stand in the way of benevolence, but aid it ; and, there- 
fore, my dear, if you loill read a novel extra now and then, 
impose upon yourself the coiTcctive of an extra visit or 
tAVO to the poor, the distressed, and afflicted ! Keep a sort 
of debtor and creditor account of sentimental indulgence 
and practical benevolence. I do not care if your pocket- 
book contains some such memoranda as these : " For the 
sweet tears I shed over the romantic sorrows of Charlotte 
Devereux, sent three basins of gruel and a flannel petticoat 
to poor old Molly BroAvn;" "For sitting up three hours 
beyond the time over the ' Bandit's Bride,' gave half a 
crown to Betty Smith;" "My sentimental agonies over 
the pages of the ' Broken Heart ' cost me three visits to 
the Orphan Asylum and two extra hours of Dorcas Society 
work ; " " Two quarts of caudle to poor Johnson's wife 
and some gaberdines for his ragged children, on account of 
a good cry over the pathetic story of the "Forsaken 
One.' " 

But if the luxury — and it is a luxury, and in itself noth- 



178 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

ing more — of sympathy and mere benevolent feeling be 
separated from action^ then Butler's paradox becomes a 
terrible truth, and "the heart is not made better," but 
worse, by it. 

And the following causes are peculiarly apt to render the 
species of emotion which fiction excites, not merely dis- 
proportionate to the habits of benevolence, but unfriendly 
to tlieir formation. First ; in order to make the represen- 
tations of fictitious distress pleasant^ — and that is the ob- 
ject of any fiction which depicts it, for it is a work of art, — 
there must be a careful exclusion of those repulsive features 
of distress which shock genuine sensibility and sympathy 
in real life. Poverty, and misfortune, and sickness are to 
be " interesting," captivating ; the dirt, the filth, the vul- 
garity, the ingratitude, which real benevolence encounters 
in the attemj^t to relieve them, must be removed, not merely 
from the senses, but as far as possible from the imagination 
of the reader ; no offensive aura must steal from the sick 
chamber where tlie faithful heroine suffers or watches, or 
from the chamber of death itself ; none which even the 
fancy can detect; chloride of lime, and eau de Colog)ie^ 
double-distilled of fancy, — must cleanse from the sweet 
pages every ill odor, lest the delicate reader that lies lan- 
guidly on the sofa, wrapt in the luxury of woe, (perhaps 
with streaming eyes and frequent ap})lication of the fine 
cambric), should feel too acutely; — lest the refined pleas- 
ure thus cunningly extracted out of the sorrows of the 
world should turn to pain ! Now the more this feeling is 
indulged, the more fistidious it becomes ; till at last, if 
the 2)ract ice of benevolence has not been in full j^roportion, 
the obstacles encountered by benevolence, when it attempts 
its proper task, become insurmountable, and its efforts are 
quenched at once. Accordingly, many a young lady has 
found, on her first attempt to visit the cabins of the poor, 



ON NOVEL READING. 179 

and relieve the wants of the sick, that, as a great general 
declared " nothing was so unlike a battle as a review," so 
nothing is so unlike real benevolence as the luxurious sem- 
blance of it excited by a novel, and acted " with great ap- 
plause " on the theatre of the imagination. So squeamish 
may this feeling become, that even novels may depict 
scenes of sorrow, all too real. Even the reflected light of 
real life may be too strong for it. The fair reader, in dan- 
ger of dying of " aromatic pain," cannot tolerate the vivid- 
ness of this pre-Raphaelite style of literary jiainting ! 
Perhaps as cu% it ought not to be tolerated ; for art ought 
to be confined within the limits which secure an overbalance 
of pleasure. But whether this be a correct canon of art 
or not, the moral effect of too much novel reading, (let the 
novels be ever so excellent as works of art,) is just what 
I say. It is apt to produce a fastidiousness, which cannot 
bear the real ; no, nor even the faithful delineation of the 
real. Many a dear novel reader, one would imagine, sup- 
poses that the '•'■final cause " (but one) of all the misery 
in the Avorld, is to furnish the elements of the picturesque 
and the " interesting," the raw material for the fictitious 
painter, — and the " final cause " itself, the delicious luxury 
of that sentimental sympathy with which he insj^ires the 
elegant and fastidious reader ! 

Pleasurable sympathy with fictitious distress and be- 
nevolent desire to relieve real., differ infinitely. How 
picturesque some loathsome, squalid cabin, or a gipsies' 
tent often looks in a picture ! " How prettily," we all say, 
" that little piece of humanity is introduced there ! " yet 
how few would relish the thought of entering the reality ! 
With what reluctance would they do it, even though 
benevolence bade! See there an illustration of the dif- 
ference between sentimental emotion and benevolent 
principle. 



180 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

The luxury of mere sympathy and sensibility, (now do 
not look so shocked,) of the "fine feelings" excited by 
fiction is, when disjoined from practical benevolence, so 
great, that it may actually form a notable element in a 
person's daily felicity, and yet he may be one of the most 
selfish creatures in the world ! 

How delightful it is to sit still, and play, not only with 
no trouble, but with the liveliest pleasure, the part of 
great philanthropists ! What ignorance and sorrow have 
been relieved — in fancy, by soft enthusiasts! What 
sums expended — without costing a farthing! What 
content and felicity diffused everywhere — and the un- 
grateful world none the better or the wiser for it all! 
Sentimental philanthropists, who thus revel in secret 
well-doing, transcend the Gospel maxim of not "letting 
their left hand know what their right hand doeth," for 
they let neither their " right " nor their " left hand " know 
any thing of the matter ! Out upon them ! 

Now, this selfish luxury not only blinds those who 
surrender themselves to it by the mask of seeming worth 
it wears, but by daily craving, like any other pleasant 
emotion, a more unrestrained indulgence, it makes real 
benevolence, and its hardy tasks, more and more impos- 
sible. And thus, as Bishop Butler justly says, the heart 
may be growing all the more selfish for all the heroic 
sacrifices of an imaginary virtue. 

Pray observe too, — and it is well to remember it in 
the present tendencies of popular literature, — that similar 
effects, in the absence of a genuine practical benevolence, 
may be produced by an opposite class of delineations 
from those which exhibit fictitious distress : I mean those 
which exhibit almost exclusively the follies and weak- 
nesses of mankind. When such descriptions are too 
often read, — no matter how kindly the vein of the hu- 



ON NOVEL READING. 181 

morist, — the man who has not trained his heart to pity- 
by actual benevolence is soon apt to fall into a cynical 
contempt of human infirmity, and to think that all the 
world's absurdities are game for laughter, when at least 
as often they call for compassion. 

You may perhaps be still j^uzzled a little to reconcile 
the paradox of the hardening effects of excessive sensi- 
hillty. — You will find all difficulty removed if you suffi- 
ciently meditate on the fact so beautifully pointed out by 
the great moralist I quoted in my last. So little (as he 
shows) is emotion, — even the best and most refined, — 
in itself any index of virtue, that emotion may be weak- 
ened, and indeed is so, by every practical advance in 
virtue. It is as he says, a great law of our nature, 
(and nothing can be more beautifully adapted to our 
condition as creatures who are designed for real practical 
virtue,) that while our passive emotions decay in vivid- 
ness by repetition, (though it is true w^e crave them more 
and more strongly,) our practical habits strengthen by 
exercise; so that, as this writer observes, a man may be 
advancing in moral excellence by that very course which 
deadens his emotions. He, whose sensibility gloats over 
fictitious scenes of sorrow, as the exciting cause of agree- 
able passive sensations, is in the oj^posite position ; he 
craves them more and more, though he feels them less 
\avidly, just as is the case with the drunkard and his 
dram — he hankers for it more and enjoys it less. Prac- 
tical habits, on the other hand, render emotion less vivid, 
but become more and more easy and pleasant — nay, like 
all habits, crave their wonted gratification. So true is it, 
however, that practical habit generally deadens passive 
impressions, that you i^ay lay it down as a rule, that he 
who feels poignantly, — I do not say deeply^ but poig- 
nantly, — the distress he relieves, is a novice in benev- 

16 



182 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

olence ; and hence novel-reading young ladies and gen- 
tlemen often entirely mistake the matter, when they call 
a man hard-hearted only because he does not dis2:)lay all 
the sensations and clamorous sentiments of their own 
impotent benevolence, but just quietly does all that they 
talk of, and j^erhaps hluhher about. We know that a 
benevolent medical man may take off a limb as coolly as he 
would eat his dinner, and yet feel ten times as much real 
sensibility for the sufferer as a fine lady who would run 
away, hide her face in her hands, and throw herself on 
a sofa in the most approved attitude for fainting or hys- 
terics at the sight of even a drop of blood. 

My dear Mary, take it as a caution through life, quite 
apart from the subject I have been preaching about; — 
Suspect, — I do not say condemn and hang, — but suspect 
all who indulge in superfluous expression of sentiment, all 
excessive symbols of sensibility. Those who indulge in 
these are always neophytes in virtue at the best; and, 
what is worse, they are very often among the most heart- 
less of mankind. Sterne and Rousseau were types of this 
class, — perfect incarnations of sensibility without benev- 
olence, — having, and having in perfection, the "form" of 
virtue, but " denying the power thereof." 

Your loving uncle, 

K. E H. G. 



LETTER XLII. 

TO THE SAME. 

Sutton, Oct. 12, 1846. 

So you hope, my dear niece, that I shall soon send you 
another lecture on the " proprieties," for that my lectures 
are very amusing ! Upon my word you pay me a pretty 



"YES" AND "NO." 183 

compliment, yon monkey : yon are as bad as the fashion- 
able lady, who, having heard a very pathetic sermon on a 
i'cry solemn text, was heard to remark, as she left the 
chnrch, "Well, really we have had a very entertaining 
evening ! " 

Well, Mademoiselle, thanks to that little giddy pate of 
yonrs, I fmcy there will be no lack of subjects whereon 
to admonish yon. Your Mentor, believe me, will hold no 
sinecure. However, if I must lecture, hear me, — though 
speaking lightly, — on a very grave subject. 

It is my purj^ose, my dear, to carry on your gram- 
matical studies a little, by doing what I humbly venture 
to think your governess must have left partially undone,. 
— I must indoctrinate you in the true theory and right 
use of "yes" and "no." Do not be alarmed; I am not 
about to trouble you with any tedious inquiry into the 
etymology or syntax of these important j^articles. These 
Ave leave to those whom it concerns ; but as to the mean- 
ing and use of these atoms of speech, depend on it, they 
are of more importance than the meaning and use of the 
most centipedal polysyllables that crawl over the pages 
of Johnson's Dictionary. 

You remember the last pleasant evening in my last 
visit to Shirley, when I accompanied you to the party at 
Mrs. Austin's. Something occurred there, which I had no 
opportunity of improving for your benefit. So as you 
invite reproof, — an invitation which, who that is mortal 
and a senior can refuse, — I will enlarge a little. 

The good lady, our hostess, expressed, if you recollect, a 
fear that the light of the unshaded camphene was too bright, 
in the position in which you sat, for your eyes. Though I 
saw you blinking with positive pain, yet, out of a foolish 
timidity, you protested — " Ko, — oh no, — not at all ! " 



184 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

Now that was a very unneighborly act of the tongue, thus 
to set at naught the eye ; the selfish thing must have for- 
gotten that " if one member suffer, all the others must suffer 
Avith it." My dear, never sacrifice your eyes to any organ 
whatever ; at all events not to the tongue, — least of all, 
when it does not tell the truth. Of the two, you had 
better be dumb than blind. 

Now, if I had not interposed, and said that you icere suf- 
fering, whether you knew it or not, you would have played 
the martyr all the evening to a sort of a — a — what shall 
I call it ? — it must out, — a sort of fashionable fib ! You 
may answer, perhaps, that you did not like to make a fuss, 
or seem squeamish, or discompose the company, and so, 
from timidity, you said " the thing that was not." Very 
true ; but this is the very thing I want you to guard against ; 
I w^ant you to have such presence of mind that the thought 
of absolute Truth shall so preoccupy you as to defy surprise, 
and anticipate even the most hurried utterances. 

The incident is very trifling in itself; I have noticed it, 
because I think I have observed, on other occasions, that 
from a certain timidity of character, and an amiable desire 
not to give trouble or " make a fuss," as you call it, (there, 
now, Mary, I am sure the medicine is nicely mixed — that 
spoonful of syrup ought to make it go down,) you have 
evinced a disposition to say, from i^ure want of thinking, 
what is not precise truth. Weigh well, my dear girl, and 
ever act on, that precept of the Great Master, which, like 
all His i^recepts, is of deepest imj^ort, and, in spirit, of the 
utmost generality of application, " Let your yea be yea, and 
your nay, nay." 

Let truth — absolute truth — take precedence of every- 
thing ; let it be more precious to you than anything else. 
Sacrifice not a particle of it at the bidding of indolence. 



"YES" AND "NO." 185 

vanity, interest, cowardice, or shame ; least of all, to those 
tawdry idols of stuffed straw and feathers, — the idols of 
fashion and false honor. 

It is often said that the great lesson for a young man or 
a young woman to learn is how to say " no." It would be 
better to say that they should learn aright how to use both 
" yes " and " no," — for both are equally liable to abuse. 

The modes in wliich they are employed often give an 
infallible criterion of character. 

Some say both so doubtfully and hesitatingly, drawling 
out each letter, " y-e-s," " n-o," that one might swear to 
their indecision of character at once. Others repeat them 
with such facility of assent or dissent, taking their tone 
from the previous question, that one is equally assured of 
the same conclusion, or, what is as bad, that they never 
reflect at all. They are a sort of parrots. 

One very important observation is this, — be pleased to 
remember, my dear, that " yes " in itself always means 
" yes," and " no" always means "no." 

I fancy you will smile at such a profound remark ; never- 
theless many act as if they never knew it, — both in utter- 
ing these monosyllables themselves, and in inter25reting 
them as uttered by others. Young ladies, for example, 
when the question, as it is called, par excellence^ (as if it 
were more important than the whole catechism together,) 
is put to them, often say "no," when they really mean 
" yes." It is a singular happiness for them that the young 
gentlemen to whom they reply in this contradictory sort of 
way have a similar incaj^acity of understanding "yes" and 
" no ; " nay, a greater ; for these last often persist in think- 
ing " no " means " yes," even when it really means what it 
says. 

"Pray, my dear," said a mamma lo her daughter of 

16* 



186 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

eighteen, " what was your cousin saying to you when I 
met you, bhishing so, in the garden ? " 

" He told me that he loved me, mamma, and asked if I 
could love him." 

" Upon my word ! And what did you say to him^ my 
dear ? " 

" I said, ' Yes,' mamma." 

" My dear, how could you be so " 

" Why, mamma, w^hat else could I say ? it was the — 
truths 

Now I consider this a model for all love-passages ; and 
when it comes to your turn, my dear, pray follow this truth- 
loving young lady's examj)le, and do not trust to your 
lover's powers of interpretation to translate a seeming 
" no " into a genuine " yes." He might be one of those 
simple, worthy folks who are so foolish as to think that a 
negative is really a negative ! 

I grant that there are a thousand conventional cases in 
which "yes" means " no," and "no" means "yes;" and 
they are so ridiculously common, that every one is sup- 
posed, in politeness, not to mean what he says, or rather is 
not doubted to mean the contrary of what he says. In fact, 
quite apart from positive lying, — that is, any intention to 
deceive, — the honest words are so often interchanged that 
if " no " were to prosecute " yes," and " yes " " no," for 
trespass, I know not which would have most causes in 
court. Have nothing to do with these absurd convention- 
alisms, my dear. " Let your yea be yea," and your " nay, 
nay." If you are asked whether you are cold, hungry, 
tired, — never, for fear of giving trouble, say the contrary 
of Avhat you feel. Decline giving the trouble, if you like, 
by all means ; but do not assign any false reason for so 
doing. These are trifles, you will say, and so they are ; but 



"YES" AND "NO." 187 

it is only by austere regard to truth, even in trifles, that 
we shall keep the love of it spotless and pure. '.' Take care 
of the pence" of truth, " and the pounds will take care of 
themselves." 

Not only let your utterance be simple truth, as you ap- 
prehend it, — but let it be decisive and imambiguous, ac- 
cording to those apprehensions. Some persons speak as 
falteringly as if they thought the text I have cited, ran, 
" Let your yea be nay, and your nay, yea." And so they 
are apt to assent or dissent, according to the tenor of the 
last argument : " Yes — no " — " yes — no " — it is just like 
listening to the pendulum of a clock. 

It is a great aggravation of the misuse of " yes " and 
" no," that the young are apt to lose all true apprehension 
of their meaning, and think, in certain cases, that " yes " 
cannot mean " yes," nor " no," " no." 

I have known a lad, whose mother's " no " had generally 
ended in " yes," completely ruined because, when his father 
said " no " in reply to a request for unreasonable aid, and 
threatened to leave him to his own devices if he persisted 
in extravagance, could not believe that his father meant 
what he said, or could prevail on justice to turn nature out 
of doors. But his father meant " no," and stuck to it ; and 
the lad was ruined, simply because, you see, he had not 
noticed that father and mother difiered in their dialects, — 
that, in his father's, " no " always meant " no," and nothing 
else. You have read "Rob Roy," and may recollect that 
that amiable young gentleman, Mr. F. Osbaldestone, with 
less reason, very nearly made an equally fatal mistake ; for 
every word his father had ever uttered, and every muscle 
in his face, every gesture, every step ought to have con- 
vinced him that his father always meant what he said. 

In fine, my dear niece, learn to apply these little words 



188 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

aright and honestly ; and, httle though they be, you -will 
keep the love of truth pure and unsulhed. 

Ah me ! what words of joy and sorrow — what madden- 
ing griefs and ecstasies — have these poor monosyllables 
conveyed ! More than any other words in all the diction- 
ary have they enraj)tured or saddened the human heart ; 
rung out the peal of joy, or sounded the knell of hope. 
And yet not so often as at first sight might appear ; for 
these blunt and honest words are, both, kindly coy in scenes 
of agony. There are occasions, — and those the most ter- 
rible in life, — when the lips are fairly absolved from using 
them, and when, if the eye cannot express what the muffled 
tongue refuses to tell, the tongue seeks any stammering, 
compassionate circimilocution rather than utter the dreaded 
syllable. " Is there no hope ? " says the mother, hanging 
over her dying child, to the physician in whose looks are 
life and death. He dare not say "yes," — but to such a 
question silence and dejection can alone say " no." 

May there be to you, dear Mary, not many scenes in 

life, — some there will, there must be, — when you cannot 

utter either of these monosyllables ; when truth will not let 

you say the one, and compassion will not let you breathe 

the other. 

Believe me, 

Ever yours affectionately, 

E. E. H. G. 



TREATMENT OF CRIMINALS. 189 



LETTER XLIII. 

TO ALFEED WEST, ESQ. 

Sutton, October, 1847. 
My deak West, 

. . . "The treatment of criminals," — a question on 
which you ask my opinion — is indeed a puzzling one. As 
to the plan of keejDing them all in this country, — unless 
the most absolute necessity comj^els us, — it is the very 
worst of all ; at least, if the wretches are to be turned 
loose, after a term of imprisonment, on a dense population 
and an often glutted labor-market : this is simply the most 
comprehensive cruelty both to the innocent and the guilty. 
The criminal thus turned out of jail, enfranchised with a 
pernicious freedom, cannot but relapse into crime. He 
cannot compete with honest poverty, unless the door of 
the counting-house and the factory be shut m its face in 
flivor of the ticket of leave. Perhaps, here and there, one 
of our mad philanthrof)ists would sacrifice unblemished 
worth to an absurd sympathy with guilt ; but not one ui 
ten thousand would ; and, in nearly every case, the relapse 
of the criminal is inevitable. 

The difiiculties of the question almost force one on one 
of two courses ; either a return, under some modifications, 
to strictly penal settlements — a horrible alternative ! — or 
(what, in some moods, I have thought the truest mercy, 
not only to society, but to criminals themselves) the plan 
of making all the crimes of violence, — murder, highway 
robbery, burglary, arson, — inexpiable except by enslave- 
ment for life / the criminal to be employed all his days on 
public works, under a system of strict military law ; the 
triangle and the platoon to be the prompt and instant 
avengers of every serious offence against discipline. Why, 



190 THE GKEYSON LETTERS. 

indeed, at any rate, should the criminal code be milder 
than that of the camp ? 

I have sometimes fancied that such a chastisement of 
every deliberate forfeiture (by commission of crimes of vio- 
lence) of the protection of society, would do more than 
anything else to prevent them. If every one disposed to 
invade his neighbor's liberty, saw over every prison door 
Dante's terrible inscription, — 

"Abandon lioj)c, all ye "vvbo enter here," — 

I am inclined to think few crimes of violence would be de- 
liberately committed. 

But it is a question of immense difficulty. I remember, 
some years ago, reading all that Bentham — all that Bec- 
caria — all that others have said on the treatment of crim- 
inals, and thought it incomparably the most perplexing 
problem in political science. 

If we could but give ourselves wholly to one of the two 
great aims of penal legislation, — the prevention of crime, 
— and leave the reformation of the criminal quite out of 
sight ; if we could but make that which is the princij^al, 
the sole object, and apply to crime remorselessly the maxim, 
" Experimentum fiat in corpore vili," — I fancy the most 
awful punishment and the most efiectual deterre^it of crime 
would be just to let it have its play among those wlio had 
been tainted by it ; to select for example, some island in 
the deep recesses of the ocean, — of sufficient fertility, and 
no more, to yield a scanty subsistence to its inhabitants, if 
they chose to w^ork the stubborn glebe, — and then put 
ashore there every one who had committed certain heinous 
crimes, and let them do their best or worst ; the Govern- 
ment simply keeping a port, and cruisers Avho should see to 
it that none ever escaped from that dreadful prison ; but 
never interfering to prevent any ill consequences of this 



TREATMENT OF CRIMINALS. 191 

concentration of evil ; to stay any tumult, to redress any 
wrongs, to punish any cruelties in this region of huge mis- 
rule. 

You will think, perhaps, that sheer necessity, — the 
necessity which exacts " honor " (such as it is) " among 
thieves," would lead on to some sort of government ; and 
it doubtless would, for extermination would be the result 
if the principles of evil had unchecked sway. "But of all 
despotisms or republics the world has yet seen, I suppose 
this would be incomparably the worst ; in which truth and 
justice would be recognized only so far as they were reluc- 
tantly felt to be necessary to the very existence of the body 
politic, — a striking homage, by the way, even that, to the 
moral constitution of the universe ; for it proves that even 
when men have discarded virtue itself, they must still wear 
the semblance of it. But still, what dreadful excesses, 
within the limits of " thieves' honor " would evil passions 
oive birth to ! Who can imao'ine the horrors of a commu- 
nity of lust, cruelty, cunning, greed, blasphemy, — a com- 
munity in which hope and shame would be dead ; where 
the heaviest woe of all would be that very tyranny — that 
" Right of Might " — which yet would be the only thing 
which could keep such a society from extinction ; where he 
of the Red Right-hand might be king ; the makers of law 
those \\h.o had been most famed for breaking it ; in which 
a murderer might be chancellor, and every judge a felon ! 

But most probably there could be no stable government 
even of this horrible kind ; a succession of brief anarchies 
Avould form the crimson annals, diversified only by the mo- 
mentary pre-eminence of some superior fiend, — " Beelze- 
bub, the prince of the devils, casting out devils." In short, 
the picture is too dreadful to dwell on ; humanity shudders 
at the thought of it ; so we must give \v^ this promising 
speculation ; we have no business thus to antedate Hell. 



192 THE GREYSON LETTERS, 

Yes — Hell. For to be evil, and to be abandoned to evil ; 
to live in the midst of those whose countenances reflect 
only evil passions, stamped with cruelty, lust, cunning, 
malice ; and to feel (most dreadful of all) that their coun- 
tenances are but the mirrors of our own ; that we are free 
to " Avork all manner of evil " against one another, wliich 
the utmost selfishness, armed v^dth cunning, unchecked by 
conscience, and checked only by fear, can inflict; what, 
after all, is that but hell ? Did you ever read Sir James 
Mackintosh's description of the feelings with which he once 
found himself standing alone amongst the felons of i^ew- 
gate, on a casual visit of compassion to that prison ? As 
he saw around him the multi2:)lied images of depravity, — 
every variety of expression of hatred, malignity, cruelty, 
lust, cunning, — he confesses to a feehng of the most sick- 
ening horror and dread. It must have been hardly better 
than standing alone in the serpents' house in the Zoologi- 
cal Gardens, without anything between the reptiles and 
the spectator, and — the doors locked! 

But to return. If, I say, it were not for humanity, such 
a "habitation of dragons" as I have supjDosed would, 
surely, be the true thing to deter men from crime, and 
maintain in them a wholesome fear of coming into such a 
place of torment. How would its very mystery of veiled 
hon-ors strike the imagination ; — that land of silence of 
Avhich no tongue could tell anything, — on which the foot of 
innocence had never trod, from which that of guilt never 
returned; — that land for ever divided from the living 
world, as much as if the gi^ave had already closed on its 
weary inhabitants ! "VYho can tell what wholesome aifright- 
ing myths — what salutary appalling tales — would shape 
themselves out of the hints and whispers of those who had 
only gazed on the melancholy isle ! How would the voy- 
agers who but sailed in view of the " unblessed land " trans- 



TREATMENT OF CRIMINALS. 193 

fer even to its physical features the gloomy associations of 
their fancy, and exaggerate whatever riiggedness nature 
had given it, tenfold ! How, as they looked at it with 
hushed breath, would their own feelings deepen its myste- 
rious silence, and paint it to imagination in darker colors 
than those of reality ! How would it thrill the mind with 
horror to find officers of the watchful cruisers reporting that 
on such a dark night they had heard loud shrieks at Mur- 
der Cove ; on another, had seen fires blazing far inland as 
if some bloody raid was going forward ; that sometimes old 
graybeards and children, with their throats cut, — mere 
lumber to be got rid of by these thrifty colonists, — came 
floating by ! 

Ah, by the way, how are Ave to j)rovide for the babies of 
that horrible community? for babies — some at least — 
tliere will be ; though I apprehend Mr. Malthus need not 
be in any alarm about excess of population. Alas ! this 
argument alone, if there were no other derived from hu- 
manit}', Avould be enough to frighten us from this hoj^eful 
scheme ; unless, by the way, men were sent to one island, 
and women to another, which I fear would but complete 
the horror of both ; or unless none but ladies well stricken 
in years and crime were deemed eligible for such select so- 
ciety; or other equally objectionable preliminaries of citi- 
zenship were insisted upon. At any rate, to doom inno- 
cence to be born into such a place as that, would be a fouler 
crime tlian any the criminals there had committed. That 
spot would in that case be darker than hell itself; for in 
hell, doubtless, as in heaven, "they neither marry nor are 
given in marriage." 

I presume, therefore, we must give u^) all hope of real- 
izing any such " normal prison." Yet it is not without its 
use, to let the mind dwell on such a theme, if it but excite 

17 



'o 



194: THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

one salutary thought of the horror of going into any re- 
sembUnc: Avorld ! . . . . 

Ever yours, 

E. E.. H. G. 



LETTER XLIY. 

TO C. MASON, ESQ. 

Inverart, July, 1848. 

My dear Mason, 

I think if you had been with us yesterday, you would 
have been amused, — not to say instructed, — -by the illu- 
sions of a harmless sort of madman, who — be not shocked 
— turned out to be an intimate friend of the " de'il." 

I was seated in comjoany with a young stranger, on a 
stone bench in front of a little inn on my way here, lazily 
looking out on the sunny mountains, when a man, decently 
dressed as to the materials, though rather fantastically as 
to the colors, sat down beside me ; and the mutter of his 
lips, his restless air, and the bright but wandering eye, con- 
vinced me that he was " no just that right in his mind." 
He was a Scotchman, who, like so many of his country- 
men, had received in his youth an education much beyond 
that of a similar class in our own country ; and seemed to 
have lost none of his native shrewdness under the influence 
of his malady. After sitting for a few minutes, twitching 
his features, muttering his "wayward fancies," stealing 
rapid glances at me, shifting his limbs in incessant restless- 
ness, he suddenly turned, and, with that mysterious con- 
fidential undertone in which a maniac loves to utter his 
absurdities, and which renders them so fearful to the lis- 
tener, said " Did ye e'er see the de'il, mon ? " 



THE MADMAN AND THE DEVIL 195 

" I do not know that I have ever seen him," said I. 

" I have, then," said he, with much such an air of supe- 
riority as a vulgar tuft-hunter might have assumed in chiim- 
ing acquaintance with my Lord Duldrum ; (nodding his 
head and compressing his lips at the same time ,) " I have, 
then," said he ; " mony's the fine crack we hae had the- 
gither ; amaist always by night, ye ken," he added, with a 
mysterious air ; " he dinna bide a blink of the sun, I 'm 
thinking." 

" Why," said my young stranger-companion, who seemed 
to know something of the madman, " they say, Dandie, that 
there Avas never such a thing as the de'il ! " 

"Ah ! are ye there now, mon? " said the madman, in high 
dudgeon. " He kens yoK, mon, better than ye ken him. 
He was a gay gude preacher as once said to a daft young 
fule like you, ' Ye're an undutifu' laddie to deny your ain 
fiither.' If ye dinna ken him yet, ye will, mon, ye will if 
ye live; or if you dinna live, ye'U ken him still better, I'm 
thinking." 

Madman you may be, thought I ; but, like many more 
of your brotherhood, you have a sharp humor of your own. 

" Well, but," said I, wishing to humor his illusion, and 
desiring I fear, — Heaven forgive me ! — to derive a little 
amusement from it ; at the same time anxious to prevent 
the passion into which it was evident the thoughtlessness 
of the youth might plunge him by wanton contradiction, — 
" Well, but Dandie, have you never seen him by day ? " 

" To be sure, I have," said he with an air of suj^eriority ; 
" though not sae often as by night, — that I canna gainsay. 
And when I hae seen him by day, it is mostly in the 
shadow of yon i3ine wood, which you can just see frae this, 
in a dark glen where the stream comes tumbling down, 
and sounds awsome in the gloaming. I hae whiles met 
him there, and had a wee crack wi' him ; but he does na 



196 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

seem that cheerful and frankUke as in the bonny star- 
light." 

" Pooh ! " said the young man, Avho seemed to take a de- 
light in teasing him; "you've seen some madman wander- 
ing there, Dandie, and have mistaken him for the de'il ; 
tliat's all." 

" Begging your pardon, then, Mr. Mac Donald, the de'il 's 
nae mair wud than I am ; " little thinking of the compli- 
ment he was paying his patron. 

" Well, but," said I, " did you ever see him in the broad 
daylight ? " ^ 

" Ance I did," said the maniac, sinking his voice to a con- 
fidential whisper ; " but, eh ! sirs, it's a sair sight that ; I 
wadna see it again. Ye maun ken we were walking a wee 
bit out of the shade of the wood on a stormy day, and just 
then the sun glinted frae between the clouds in a bright 
light ; but it wasna to shine on him, or he wadna be shone 
upon by it ; a dark shadow fell in a ring all about him, and 
in that shadow I seemed to feel as cauld as I would under 
the northern peak of Ben Cruachan yonder!" 

" And has he," said I, " the claws and hoof usually given 
to him ? " 

" Na, na," replied this enlightened gentleman, — " that is 
just vulgar superstition, mon. He is as weel favored a 
gentleman, — dressed in black, though, ye ken, like a cler- 
gyman, for he aye likes seeming, — as Zam." 

" But," said I, soothingly, " did you never use your priv- 
ilege to tell him that some of the young folks of our ac- 
quaintance doubt his existence altogether? " 

" That have I," said he ; " and it's amaist the only time 
I ever saw a giggle on his foce. ' Aye, aye,' says he, * that 
is just what I tell them mysel, and they sj^eak as I bid 
them, puir unconscious fules ! It's at times ane o' my de- 
lights now to hear them saying there is na sic thing as the 



THE MADMAN AND THE DEVIL. 197 

de'il, while I am just at their elbows, and hae put that vera 
lie into their mouths. But it is na aften that I am at the 
pains ; for the greater part of manldnd are sic fules that 
they are equally deceived, though they do believe that 
there is a de'il ! ' Eh ! but," said the madman, " the de'il 
spak truth there, ony way. Oh ! but it's sad to see that 
man will throw away life, weal, wife, childer, heaven, and 
a' for a gill o' whiskey or a bit rag o' painted harlotry. 
They say the de'il is very busy in tempting men ; but he maun 
hae an easy time o't, I'm thinking. All of them meet him 
mair than half-way. Ilk ane seems to gang to him, and 
say — ' Hae na ye some dainty temptation for me to-day, 
now, Daddie Satan ? I'm sair wracked for a coaxing temj?- 
tation.' " 

"Well, but," said I, "Dandie, have you never expos- 
tulated with him on the cruelty of his conduct, and asked 
him Avhat pleasure he can have in inflicting tortures on 
the miserable victims of his arts ? You remember what 
your countryman Burns says in his address to the de'il — 

" I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gle ye — " 

" Hoot, mon," broke in the madman ; " Rob was a fine 
poet — puir fellow — nae doot o' that; but I'm thinking 
he was na always in his right senses ; when the whisky 
AYas In^ the brains were out^ ye ken; and I'm sure he was 
never sae weel acquent wi' auld Clootie as I am, puir 
blinded mon ! " — he continued, as if his intimacy was a 
singular privilege. 

" But," said I, recalling him, "about his cruelty, now — 
did ye never expostulate with him ? I really think, that, 
as a good man, you should. Who knows what you might 
do with him ? " 

"I kenna," said he, sagely shaking his head; "he's a 
dour carl to persuade to onything ; and, after a', how does 

17* 



198 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

he do waur than mony a king and great captam, who slay, 
and hang, and burn thousands upon thousands to slake 
then' j^ride and vain -glory ? " 

" But the cruelty of toraienting men," said I 

"And how do ye ken it is just cruelty?" said this 
devil's advocate, "ony mair than it's just cruelty that 
makes kings and captains cut throats, and burn towns and 
villages. It's, may be, just the luve o^ power ^ — and what 
for suld na Satan be as fond of a braw kingdom as a 
man ? " 

Here our curious colloquy closed; for his last answer 
set me musing. Yes, thought I, this madman has un- 
wittingly rej^lied to one of the f^ivorite arguments for the 
devil's non-existence, — the supj^osition of gratuitous and 
motiveless malignity. Why should there not be, as the 
solemn intimations of the Scripture seem to show us, a 
greater than even the greatest of evil men, fighting for 
empire, for the gratification of pride, ambition, and " im- 
mortal hate ? " And how is his conduct, on that suppo- 
sition, more inexplicable than that of the petty conquerors 
among men, who, with less potent means, do mischief 
from the same motives? who, as my madman said, burn, 
and slay, and hang, and cut the throats of thousands — 
for power ? Can even the devil do more than those who 
cry " havoc ! " and wantonly " let slip the dogs of war," 
for ambition's sake ? who know that the burning roof-tree, 
fathers murdered on their own hearth, and weejjing cap- 
tives, and smoking harvests, are among the " incidents " of 
conquest ? 

And if it be said, as sciolists are so apt to say, that God, 
with His omnipotence, would not let such a being as the 
devil play such pranks as are attributed to him, in His 
universe, — alas ! the question returns — May He not, for 
reasons unknown to u,s, permif.it, — since, for reasons 



TO AN INCIPIENT NEOLOGIST. 100 

equally unknown, He has suffered so many incarnate 

demons to lay waste and desolate this fair world of 

ours? . . . 

Yours faithfully, 

* E. E. H. G. 



LETTER XLY. 

TO 

Near Brodick, Arran, Aug. 1848. 
My dear Friend, 

I am living here in absolute solitude, but in the midst 
of the most delightful mountain scenery you can imagine. 
I am " located," at a little farm-house of the most prim- 
itive Highland simplicity, in two tiny rooms about twelve 
feet by fifteen, and lighted by windows two feet square. 
I have just sufficient books to fill a little mantel-j^iece ; 
and on wet days, they and my pen form my only re- 
sources. But I live on the banks of such a mountain 
stream, and at the entrance of such a glen, — why, it is 
like stepping out of an Indian wigwam into Paradise, the 
moment I cross the threshold. This reconciles me to my 
lot, and to the absolute loss of society; for I hardly 
reckon my old host and hostess to be any. We seldom 
exchange more than five words at a time, and they are 
not such as to invite more. 

I know not how it is that I have got the character of a 
very merry, sociable sort of person ; for few j^eople enjoy 
solitude more than I do, or have had more of it. I sup- 
pose it is because, going seldom into society, I enjoy it 
with all the more gusto from my customary hermit's life. 
Never was there a character, however, worse bestowed ; 
for I fear there has seldom been a man more sombre, or 
that, on an average, has smiled or laughed less. 



200 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

Such is the force of habit, nevertheless, that I caimot 
recollect that I ever left any com2:>any, however congenial 
and however merry, and felt solitude irksome; my quiet 
study, those sij^nt friends, my. books, have never seemed 
unwelcome. I believe I have spent more hours alone 
than any man of my acquaintance, or j^erhaps than any 
man who has not been condemned to solitary imprison- 
ment for life ; and yet, such is habit, that sometimes, and 
for many days together, I feel as if I could bear never to 
see again a " human face divine ; " — certainly could dis- 
pense with seeing my own. Yet neither philosophy nor 
religion assent to this morose life : not philosophy, for I 
should be forced to light my own fire and cook my own 
mutton; nor religion, for the Allwise himself has said, 
what all experience confirms, " that it is not good for man 
to be alone." 

And yet Adam, I sometimes fancy, half doubted this 
truth by the time Eve had been in Paradise a few days 
and made the serpent a morning call. I rather think he 
heartily wished he was munching his solitary peaches 
again. 

A few days ! why, some of the schoolmen doubted 
whether Eve remained in Paradise a single day before she 
committed \\\q faux pas ; and they said so, I fancy, from 
sheer difficulty of imagining that a lady's frailty could 
hold out longer. But commentators were always an 
ungallant and churlish set. For my part, I confidently 
believe that Eve held out much longer; — three whole 
days, at the very least. 

One w^onders what would have been the condition of 
the world, if little Eve had eaten, and Adam had not ; if 
he had politely handed her ladyship to the side door in 
the wall of Paradise ; told her that " separate main- 
tenance " would be her lot on the other side, amongst the 



TO AN INCIPIENT NEOLOGIST. 201 

" thorns and thistles ; " and so fairly turned the key upon 
her. If he had been as brutal a husband as a good many 
of his descendants, I can imagine him returning to his 
spade and dibble with great scmg froid^ without even 
throwing the poor creature a few apples over the wall. 

But as it was — alas ! the story reads profoundly nat- 
ural^ whether in the book of Genesis or Milton's Epic. 
For Eve, Adam " lost the world, and was content to lose 
it ; " what an Antony and Cleopatra ! " All for love, and 
the world well lost ! " 

I fancy I hear some dubious lady say, " Who can doubt 
that the gentleman had a ' wee bit ' of curiosity as well as 
Eve, and a sweet tooth of his own in his head ? " 

Well, be it so ; but there is j^rofound nature in the 
tumult of sympathy with which Milton represents him 
as actinoj : 



" with thee, 

Certain my resolution is to die ; 

How can I live without thee, how forego 

Thy sweet converse, and love so dearly joined, 

To live again in these icild icoods forlorn ! " 

Well might Eve be ravished by the compliment by 
which Paradise Avas forfeited and a world undone, — 

" O o-lorious trial of exceeding love." . . . 

N'o doubt, like all of us millions of fools of Adam's sons, 
who have acted with similar folly to his OAvn when we 
have yielded to temptation, Adam went as " an ox to 
the slaughter," — without thinking ; but then that jwt 
thinking, — alas! it is his and our crime. — Not less pro- 
foundly true to human nature is Milton's description, a 
little after, of the recrimination that ensues ; and most of 
all, that which is given in Genesis. Any thing, it seems, 
rather than take a fault to ourselves! "The woman 



202 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

whom thou gavest me;" — so that Adam upbraids God 
with His own gifts, as we all do when we have made a 
bad use of them. " The serpent beguiled me," says Eve ; 
and I dare say if the serpent had been asked, he, too, 
would have said, that it was God's own fault for having 
put the " tree " in his way. 

Any thing, — the woman, — the child, — the devil, — 
God himselfj rather than man will ingenuously confess 
himself in the wrong ! 

But I have been running on, and have not ansAvered 
your question respecting the best way, not out of, but into 
this Scotch paradise. Tell your nephew to take the 
steamer from Liverpool, — go up to Greenock, and he 
will find Clyde steamers hither twice a day i which is to 
be taken, will de^^end on the time of his arrival in the 
Clyde. 

Yours truly, 

R. E. H. G. 



LETTER XLVI. 

TO THE SAME. 

Arran, Aug. 1848. 
My dear Friend, 

I little thought my late hadmage was to elicit from you 
so serious an expression of doubts^ or I should have shrunk 
as much from writing in so playful a strain as from light- 
ing a squib over a barrel of gunpowder. However, I will 
do my best, as you desire, to reply ; so a truce to all 
nonsense for the present. 

It seems to me that you have been a little touched with 
the malaria of " Rationalism " — the neological Epidemic, 



TO AX INCIPIENT NEOLOGIST. 203 

SO widely sj^reacl in our day. You have taken it mildly ; 
but be assured that the virus is in your constitution, and 
may lead to more formidable symjrtoms, and a worse type 
of the disease ; for there is, as I shall try to show you, no 
consistency — no i^rinciple — in your objections. You 
might as well carry them a thousand leagues further, and 
reject not only iGhat you say you are inclined to reject, 
but every shred of the supernatural in the Bible history ; 
nor stop there, but go on, if your, logic be but consistent, 
to Atheism itself. I speak seriously ; and though I am not 
in the habit of speaking defiantly, I do challenge you to 
justify yourself against the arguments Avhich I shall 
employ against you. 

You tell me frankly that you have no difficulty in receiv- 
ing the Bible, generally^ as a divine revelation ; nor in ad- 
mitting its history to be, generally^ authentic, and its mira- 
cles, facts ; but you ask — how can you receive " demon- 
strable discrepancies " and " grossly improbable legends " 
as true ? counting among these last, it seems, the literal his- 
tory of the Temptation and Fall, — the history of. Balaam's 
ass, — and the history of Jonah. 

Now, at the outset, I must beg you to distinguish between 
things that differ, and differ toto coelo^ — discrepancies in 
statement, and seeming improbabilities in the history. You 
speak of them as if they were to be treated alike. 

As to those discrepcmcies which you say are " demonstra- 
bly contradictions, " — if there are any such, do as you 
please — I ask no man to believe "demonstrable contradic- 
tions ;" only be sm'e they are so : for my part, I hesitate to 
say it. — I know of none such as yet / and I say so for these 
reasons: 1. I have seen so many of the alleged " demon- 
strable contradictions " reconciled, that I am rather chary 
of belief in them ; and, with regard to those still unresolv- 
ed, am willing to wait with patience for further light before 



204 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

pronouncing absolutely. 2. I know tnat many discrepan- 
cies " may be expected, without at all touching the original 
claims of the writers to inspiration, — since, unless God has 
wrought multitudinous miracles every day on all the tran- 
scribers' pens and fingers, many must have crept into tlie 
text. 3. I see that a great part of the remainder, (which 
cannot be so accounted for,) may be fairly set aside, if we 
bear in mind that circumstances may be omitted in the nar- 
rative, which if we but knew them, would prove the alleged 
discrepancies apparent only ; and indeed, such circumstan- 
ces in by far the greater number of cases, may be imagined 
as will reconcile them. I know it is the fashion of a certain 
sort of critics, as blind as owls, to say that such criticism is 
conjectural only ; but conjectural or not, they forget, that 
where a contradiction is asserted between tAvo statements, 
the mere showing that it ya possible they may both be true, 
is sufficient, (with anybody who has five grains of logic,) to 
neutralize ^A«(f. If A swears that he has seen B in Man- 
chester at twelve o'clock, and C that he saw him walking 
about the fields forty miles off an hour or so after, it is quite 
enough to neutralize the apparent discrepancy, if it be shown 
that B might have got there by an express train within tlie 
specified time, — though no proof whatever were offered, or 
to be found, that that is the mode of reconciling the state- 
ments. 4. Though I admit there may be cases where I can 
suggest no solution whatever, I prefer waiting for furtlier 
light before pronouncing them absolutely insoluble ; for it 
may be that they may turn out errors of transcription, and 
not of the original documents. However, we are at all 
events agreed that the discrepancies, which can at all be 
supposed " contradictions," are, as any candid sifting of 
them will show, few, turn on trivial points, and are utterly 
insignificant compared with the weight of evidence which 
converges to the conclusion that the Bible, as a whole, came 



TO AN INCIPIENT NEOLOGIST 205 

from God J so that even if they be supposed errors of the 
original writers, — permitted for some unknown reason, 
perhaps to teach them and us humihty, and committed in 
momentary obscuration of the i^reternatural light witli 
which they were generally favored, — the passages in 
which such errors occur may be rejected with no percepti- 
ble deduction from the result. " I know not," says Paley, 
" a more rash or unphilosophical conduct of the understand- 
ing, than to reject the substance of a story, by reason of 
some diversity of the circumstances with which it is related. 
When accounts of a transaction come from the mouths of 
different witnesses, it is seldom that it is not possible to pick 
out apparent or real inconsistencies between them. These 
inconsistencies are studiously displayed by an adverse plea- 
der, but oftentimes with little impression upon the minds of 
the judges." 

And I know you will also agree that, if we dismiss the 
hypothesis of the suj)erhuman origin of the Bible in general, 
and suppose the Book a collection of merely human records, 
it is a far more puzzling thing that so few discrepancies 
should exist than that some should ; it is far more difficult 
to account for its wonderful harmony, — for the paucity and 
insignificance of the discrepancies found in it, — than to 
suppose a few permitted to exist, on the theory of its divine 
origin, as the result of our ignorance of omitted facts or tlie 
accidents of transmission ; nay, I can imagine some discre- 
pancies permitted for many other reasons ; but no causes, 
known or unknown, will account for the unity of the Bible 
on the theory of a human origin. Considering that it is 
a collection of nearly seventy tracts — written by at least 
thirty authors, — extending over some thousands of years 
in time, — composed in different languages, — full of the 
minutest historic details, — it is incomprehensible to me 
that it should exhibit such an astonishing approach to liar- 

18 



206 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

luony, and that the " discrepancies " to which a searching 
criticism has reduced the objections of infidelity, should be 
so few, on the supposition that no superhuman wisdom pre- 
sided over its composition and compilation. 

But these discrepancies, — few or many, (which you are 
called on, however, to " demonstrate " to be contradictions^ 
before you can reject the portions of the Bible in which 
they are found,) — stand on a totally diiferent footing from 
those " improbabilities " (as you call them) in the history, 
which, as presumed to be marked by " legendary or mythi- 
cal " characteristics, you also make a stumbling block. For- 
give me if I say that here I entirely miss your ordinary 
good sense, and I am sure that your objections have not a 
particle of sound logic in them. Why I speak thus strongly, 
I will tell you in another letter. 

Yours ever faithfully, 

K. E. H. G. 



LETTER XLVII. 

TO THE SA:&rE. 

Arran, N. B., Aug. 1S48. 
My dear Friexd, 

The reason Avhich induced me to sj^eak so emj^hatically at 
the close of my last is, that I can discern no one principle^ 
nor shadow of a principle, on which you accej)t and reject the 
" preternatural." You say you believe the story of Dan- 
iel's being thrown into the lions' den, and his getting safe 
out of it ; but not the story of Jonah being swallowed by 
the great fish, and getting safe out of that : you believe in 
Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego being cast into the fiery 
furnace, and coming forth without the smell of fire upon 
them ; but 7iot the story of the serpent speaking to Eve : 



TO AN INCIPIENT NEOLOGIST. 207 

you believe the manifestations of God in human form to 
Abraham at Mamre, and of His appearance in the form of 
an angel to Joshua in the plains of Jericho, and are not even 
disturbed by the phenomenon of the " drawn sword ;" but 
you do not believe that He ever appeared as an angel 
" wrestling " with Jacob ! Now, why, in the name of won- 
der, do you believe and disbelieve thus capriciously ? What 
lyrlnciple guides you in these seemingly random selections 
and rejections? I can imagine, indeed, two courses, either 
of which would be consistent enough, — though not equally 
justified by the evidence ; but your course is to me utterly 
imintelligible. 1. I can imagine a man saying, " I reject all 
miracles, not j^erhaps as impossible^ but as so eminently hn- 
probable that no strength of external evidence can establish 
them; and, therefore, I reject all those things just enumer- 
ated, and everything else like them ; everything that breaks 
in upon my little jog-trot of familiar ' antecedents and con- 
sequents.' " This man, as we shall shortly see, ought, in 
sound logic, to go a little further, — but, so far, he is at 
least consistent. 2. Another man may say, " I believe not 
only that supernatural facts may occur, but that they can 
be proved to have occurred by appropriate evidence ; I be- 
lieve that evidence to have been given in relation to the 
Scriptural narratives of that kind ; all of them, therefore, 
that I see supported by the same degree of external evidence^ 
I equally believe ; for I atn a judge of the evidence in their 
support, and of its equality in the different cases ; but, ad- 
mitting the supernatural to have occurred at all, I am no 
judge in the world as to the modes in which God may have 
permitted it to appear. He alone is the adequate judge of 
the degree and forms in which He shall exhibit it." 

I can imagine, as I have said, the first of these two men 
(still consistently) going a step further, and saying, " I re- 
ject all supernatural occurrences as infractions of my little 



208 Till-: GREYSON LETTERS. 

familiar series of ' antecedents and consequents,' and there- 
fore reject all of that nature that appears in the Bible ; I 
cannot conceive, with some halting reasoners, one of these 
events to be, a i^riorh at all more probable than another ; it 
seems just as unlikely that Christ should have recalled a lit- 
tle c-irl of twelve to life the instant after death had done its- 
work, or turned water into wine, or fed five thousand by 
five barley loaves and a few fishes, as that Balaam's ass 
should have rebuked his master, or the young prophet's axe- 
head float ; — so, further still, — nothing can appear a more 
startling infraction of my snug little exj^erience than that a 
Jirst man should ever have sprung ' out of the dust,' or been 
' develoj^ed ' out of a * tadpole ; ' or, still more incredible, 
that there should ever have been a time when my familiar 
system of ' antecedents and consequents ' Avas non-existent 
altogether. I therefore come to the conclusion that it 
7iever began, — that 'men' and 'tadpoles' are, alike, eternal 
series, — and that the Truth is to be found only in — Athe- 
ism !" 

But as for yoii^ what can you or any such inconsistent 
dabbler in Rationalism say ? I know not — except this one 
thing : " I admit that there is nothing wonderful in mira- 
cles — for I admit scores ; I admit that it is quite ' natural ' 
that, in a ' supernatural ' system, the supernatural should be 
expected^ and that does not trouble me in the least ; but I 
am a judge, from my a priori conceptions, — my tastes, my 
fancy (even where the external evidences are just the same), 
— as to how far God would j^ermit the ' supernatural ' to 
appear, and in what forms; and therefore I decide, from a 
certain feeling of intrinsic propriety (a caprice of fancy, / 
should call it), that God may have let Daniel escape out of 
the lions' den, but would never have let Jonah slip down 
the fish's gullet ; that He may have saved Shadrach, Me- 
shach, and Abednego, though they were thrown into the 



TO AN INCIPIENT NEOLOGIST. 209 

Sery furnace, but that it is totally inconceivable that He 
should let Balaam's ass speak good sense ! " My dear friend, 
you really have nothing to go upon here, but certain a pri- 
ori conceptions and feelings of what God is likely to do : — 
of which neither you nor I can judge. 

This is, however, the Trpiarov i/^eGSos — the floating Delos 
of all Kationalism ; and you see, by experience, that it is 
utterly unstable. You see a thousand different men arriv- 
ing at a thousand different conclusions, as to how much 
they shall admit ! In this impossible w^innowing of the con- 
tents of Scripture by their a 2^riori winnowing-fan, some 
admit more than you do, — some less ; — some almost all 
the Bible, — some hardly any ; all measure it with that one 
deceitful, variable bushel of theirs. They think that, 
though the external evidence for supernatural facts may be 
the same in several cases, they yet are justified neither in 
rejecting all, nor accepting all, (whereas there is no other 
way out of the dilemma,) but that they may judge it cer- 
tain God would do this^ and w^ould not do that. This is a 
parallel folly with the famous a priori criticism which, in 
Germany, has led to such ludicrously A^ariable results in 
profane literature, and results still more ludicrous (if they 
were not so serious) in sacred. 

If you say, "Well ; must I receive every fable that pro- 
fesses to be ' supernatural,' because I am no judge of what 
it is probable that God will do or permit? " — I have abun- 
dantly answered that. You are not to receive any super- 
natural history, unless you have appropriate evidence for 
it ; but if you have it for nine facts you admit, and also for 
a tenth you reject, you are utterly illogical in rejecting that 
tenth in virtue of any such fantastical criterion as the a 
priori human view of the probable in God's administration 
of the universe : you need omniscience and infallibility to 
guide you. 

18* 



210 . THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

But if you really think you can trust any such discerning 
" spirit " within you, be pleased at least, to let it sjDeak im- 
partially. If you do, I rather fancy you will reject more 
than half the facts in the constitution of the world around 
you, in spite of the general evidence for Theism ; for how 
fewof them, viewed in their entire relations, are such as man's 
a priori wisdom would have conjectured! As I said of 
the consistent objector to all suj^ernatural facts, that he 
must, if he carry his principles fairly out, ultimately become 
an Atheist, so he who rejects certain things because he 
thinks them unlikely to be done or permitted by the Deity, 
must reject no inconsiderable part of the most notorious 
phenomena as having originated with Him or as having 
any sanction of His. Nay, that such a world as this should 
have been credited at all, — that so many mysteries of sor- 
row should have been permitted to overshadow it, — that 
such a bundle of absurdity and misery as man should ever 
have been permitted to crawl upon it, — that the develop- 
ment and education of an immortal spirit should have been 
involved in all the humiliating and joerilous conditions of 
such a material existence as ours, (to say nothing of the in- 
finite anomalies in this world's administration,) — seem, 
looked at a priori^ as unlikely as any of those things you 
make such wry faces at swallowing. Nor is there anything 
that leads the pseudo-philosopher to think otherwise, except 
that most foolish of all sophisms, which the philosopher 
above all men ought to be ever on his guard against, — 
namely, that the things we happen to he accustomed to are 
to he ruled not at all mysterious^ while everything else is! 
But, depend on it, that the inhabitants of a differently and 
more happily constituted world than ours, would, unless 
they were much better philosophers than Ave are, account 
the phenomena of this planet (if they Avere faithfully related 



TO AN INCIPIENT NEOLOGIST. 211 

to them) much more calculated to pose belief and proA^oke 

Bcepticism, than the stories of Jonah's Fish and Balaam's 

Ass! 

Yours faithfully, 

E. E. 11. G. 



LETTER XLVIII. 

TO THE SAME. 

Arran, Aug, 1848. 
My dear Friend, 

You will see that I have hitherto said nothing as to the 
two specific instances which you incidentally gave as speci- 
mens of what I call your incipient "Rationalism," and 
which led to the last two letters. I thought it much more 
important to argue against the general principle, — or 
rather the want of any-, — which seems to me to lie at the 
basis of your doubts ; an " ignis fxtuus," Avhich, if you take 
not the better heed, may lead you a pretty dance before it 
disappears, — or, more probably, will cause you to disap- 
pear, before itself vanishes, in some enormous boghole of the 
great quagmire of Rationalism over which it flickers. 

Of what I have hitherto said, this is the sum ; — Judge 
imiDartially of evidence, and do not weigh it in " a false 
balance." If you doubt whether the same external evi- 
dence does apply to two facts, one of which you reject, and 
the other you accept, — that is another thing ; fight as long 
as you will — that is, as long as you rationally can — about 
that. The authority, for example, of a particular chapter 
may be disputed ; but if, as you allow, the external evi- 
dence for the literal truth of Jonah's or Balaam's history, 
is as strong as that for Daniel's or Pharaoh's, I see not, I 
confess, anything but caprice, (which may and does assume 
a thousand different shapes in diflferent minds,) in accepting 



212 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

the one as historic truth, and rejecting the other as fabulous 
nonsense ! 

And now a word or two as to your two instances. First, 
you say the "Temptation," even putting out of sight the 
'preternatural about the transaction, (the objection to that 
must depend on the validity of the general j^rinciple already 
considered,) seems to you incomprehensible; that the 
" command," which was to constitute the probation of our 
first parents, was " trivial," " non-moral," and " arbitrary." 
As to its being " trivial," be pleased to observe that, if so, 
it was all the more easy to be obeyed ; and that, therefore^ 
it illustrates rather the moderation than the rigor of the 
Imposer. Would Adam have been better j^leased if it had 
been harder ? Would not his jDosterity then have said that 
the test of obedience was too difficult, as they now say it 
was too " trivial ? ' 

As to its being " non-moral," you must reflect that any- 
thing, though in its own nature indifierent, becomes moral 
in its obligation, if imposed by the rightful authority. 
Though not a duty in itself, an indifierent action becomes 
so, if the will of a legitimate Master impose its performance ; 
yes — though it were only a command to brush the dust 
ofi" our shoes, never to shave the beard, or always wear a 
wig. Above all, the will of the Creator is " supreme law " 
to every rational creature ; and such a creature will make 
no more objection to fulfil His arbitrary commands, when 
the idea of His authority is thus suj^erinduced upon them, 
than those commands, the essential moral character of 
which is seen to be diffiised through them. 

As to its being " arbitrary," I doubt whether you have 
ever sufficiently reflected on the real nature of the prob- 
lem. I think you forget that, in Adam's condition, an " ar- 
bitrary " command (as you call it) was a more apj^ropriate 
test of obedience than what you would call a " moral " com- 



TO AN INCIPIENT NEOLOGIST. 213 

mand. This subject, if I mistake not, is judiciously touched 
in some part of Butler's " Analogy." At all events, wliat 
^ve now ordinarily call a " moral " command would have 
insufficiently tested the absolute obedience of one whose 
whole original condition is rejDresented as such, that no 
moral command could have involved any great temj^tation 
to disobey. Imagine a being, all whose faculties are as yet 
in harmony and equilibrium ; — who does not know .what 
" evil " is ; — in blissful ignorance of the conflict of the Pas- 
sions and the Reason, the Appetites and the Conscience ; 
— whose outward condition is that of j^erfect health and 
exemption from all Avant ; — pray, which of the commands 
of the Decalogue would seem very formidable to hhn f , 

I remember hearing of an Irish lecturer, who suj^posed 
these commands addressed by an angel to an Irish Adam. 
The answers were given, I was told, in a truly Irish man- 
ner ; yet, I think, very naturally. A s I did not hear the 
lectm-er myself, I cannot precisely report the Irish Adam's 
answers ; nor can I imitate the true Paradisaic " brogue ; " 
but I believe they would very reasonably run something 
like this : — 

Thou shall have no other gods before me. 

" Arrah, thin, your honor ; I never as much as heard of 
any other at all at all." 

Thoic shall not make unto thee any graven image., nor 
the likeness of anything^ to how cloion thereunto., to loor- 
ship, 

" Why, thin, plase your honor's glory, I cannot say I ever 
felt the laste taste of a temptation in life for that same. 
Do ye think I 'd be afther making a bi%te baste of myself? " 

Tlioii shall not take the name of the Lord thy God in 
vain. 

" And would n't it be mighty quare if I did, your honor ? " 

2%ou shall honor thy father and thy mother. 

" By the Powers, did ye never know that my father and 



214 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

mother are not yet born ? and how thin would I dishonor 
them ? " 

T/ioii sJialt not steal. 

" And is it stealing you'd be afther keeping me from ? 
HoAV can I steal what is my own entirely ? " (N. B. Adam 
could not say this, when the " command " about the " tree," 
("arbitrary," as you call it,) was given him; so that, you 
see, he is condemned for " eating," even by the Decalogue. 
But to go on with his catechism.) 

Thou shalt not comtnit adultery, 

"Sure it would be sthrange if I committed adultery with 
my own wife; forsorra another woman do I see here; and 
sh(i's enough, any way." (N. B. Too much, in one sense, 
Adam soon found her.) 

Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's goods . 

"Covet? and hav'n't I told you it 's all my own, — from 
a j^each to a porcupine? " 

Thou shalt do no murder. 

" Murder ? and who is there to murder except the mis- 
thress ? And what for should you think I should murder 
her? Is it just for a thrifle of j^ace and quietness? and is 
it she, the sweet crathur, that's part of myself? And faix, 
would n't that be flat suicide ? Throth, your honor,. I won- 
der what the angels, — no offince in life, — can be made of; 
for niver a commandment of the tin has anything to do 
with Paradise ! " 

I really think this Irish Adam is worth your attention. 
The command, however, about stealing, you see, is easily 
evaded on the supposition that your " arbitrary command " 
is not given : if it b#, arbitrary though you are pleased to 
deem it, an article of the Decalogue comes in, and Adam 
is required to make a distinction between " Meum " and 
" Tuum." 

Ever yours, 

E. E. H. G. 



TO AN INCIPIENT NEOLOGIST. 215 



LETTER XLIX. 

TO THE SAME. 

Arran, Sept., 1818. 
My dear Friexd, 

The other instance of the presumed " legendary " style 
you gave, as a si^ecimen of the narratives you feel disposed 
to reject, is the history of Balaam. I j^ut out of view, as 
in the previous instance, the miraculous in the affair, inas- 
much as I have dealt with that on general grounds ; and 
because, in the abstract, you acknowledge you have no 
objection to miracle. All your difficulty seems to be about 
the degree and Jci7id of the miraculous you deem worthy of 
reception. 

ISTow whether it be more prohaUe that an ass should 
speak than fire cease to burn, (as in the case of the Three 
Children,) or hungry lions practise fasting, (as in the case 
of Daniel,) — both which last you admit to be historic, — 
is really a question I cannot enter into ; the reception of 
the fact as miraculous must, as in other cases, be deter- 
mined by this : — Is the external evidence for this miracu- 
lous narrative as unexceptionable as for other similar events 
which we scruple not to admit ? In the present case you 
must reason in the same way. 

As for the matter of what Balaam's ass says, I am sure 
you will concede that to have been most excellent sense, 
and very superior to the talk of Balaam himself; — so 
superior, indeed, that it is hard to say, on this occasion, 
which loas the ass, — the ass or the ass's master; or rather 
it is easy, — for it is very certain that Balaam was far the 
greater ass of the two. 

And, indeed, this is one of your a priori grounds for 
believing this history of Balaam to be no history all. You 



216 tup: greyson letters. 

cannot, you say, imagine a man so illuminated — so pre- 
ternaturally privileged with S23iritual knowledge — acting 
so like a dolt. 

Pardon me, my dear friend ; but this is the weakest rea- 
soning of all. Depend on it, the pictures of human nature 
in the Old Testament — even the most Rembrandt-like — 
are all true to the life, — exact types of what is every day 
quite as unaccountable in human character and conduct. 
Nay, if you will but go with sufficient metaphysical depth 
into the phenomena of a depraved will acting against the 
clear light of reason and conscience, you will find every 
act of deliberate sin equally — that is, perfectly — inexpli- 
cable ! That man — that any man — should, with his eyes 
perfectly oj^en, do what he knows, what he feels, reason 
and conscience both condemn, and of which he himself will 
often even tell you he will bitterly repent, is an intractable 
paradox ; and every man who so acts — and Avho has not 
so acted ? — only repeats the " mad prophet's " story. 

Do we not see, every day, instances enough in which the 
largest, clearest knowledge of duty, the divinest endow- 
ments of genius, the highest intellectual illumination, are 
not at all inconsistent with the commission of the coolest, 
the most enormous wickedness ? Is not history, is not 
common life, full of illustrations of this mournful truth ? 
Do we not see men, whose i^revailing and habitual 23roi:)en- 
sities carry the day against convictions which no revelation 
could make clearer ? — against ex2)erience which no miracles 
could make more conclusive ? 

But- as to this question, — whether Balaam's character 
and conduct hQ psycliologically possible or probable^ — read 
Butler's wonderful sermon upon it. I think you will doubt 
no more that the portrait is true to human nature and hu- 
man nature's j^ower of juggling with itself; and that your 
philosophy, not that of the Bible, is superficial. Neither 



TO AN INCIPIENT NEOLOGIST. 217 

knowledge nor endowments of any kind or degree are any- 
absolute security against any amount of moral absurdity 
or obliquity. " But miracles ! " you say, — " immediate 
consciousness of preternatural communications!" — No, 
nor even these. The question of " natural" or " preter- 
natural " has nothing to do with the matter. The thing 
that constitutes the mystery is the breach of a law which, 
at the very moment we break it, we confess to be absolutely 
authoritative; and whether that conviction comes to us 
"naturally or "preternaturally" makes no diiference. Now 
of this practical paradox all men, as well as Balaam, show 
themselves capable enough in every act of deliberate vio- 
lation of conscience ! As to miracles, I will show you in 
a moment, that belief in them as little involves any incred- 
ibility in Balaam's conduct. 

You will acknowledge, I suppose, that it is the belief 
that miracles are really wrought, — whether really wrought 
or not, — that can alone be supj^osed to have any moral 
bearing, or give the conception of them any moral force. 
Well, among the ancient Jews, — among the ancient 
heathens, — through the middle ages, was not that belief 
universal and sincere ? Did that belief that " miracles " 
were often wrought, — that direct communications Avere 
still maintained between the natural and sui^ernatural, — 
that the door of the unseen world was, as it Avere, left 
ajar, — act in any appreciable degree as a deterrent from 
crime on man? Was there any lack of crimes in conse* 
quence ? Were there not as deliberate and flagrant sins 
committed then as in our more scej^tical age? Were they 
not wrought in spite of man's being haunted by this very 
conviction that he lived amidst " miracles, " which might 
at any moment disclose or avenge his guilt, and though he 
was often miserable in proportion to that belief? Miracles 
no doubt have an important function ; a valid intellectual 

19 



218 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

bearing ; they are of use, as evidence in given cases, to 
confirm the message of God to man ; but the most sincere 
— the most vivid beUef in them has, of itself, no power 
to oj3erate a moral change on man's depraved will. 
And it were strange if it could, when he is so often 
seen acting against a knowledge of duty clear as the sun at 
mid-day, — clear as the clearest convictions which any evi- 
dence from earth, heaven, or hell, can produce upon him. 
So profoundly true is that saying of Christ, — " If they 
will not hear Moses and the prophets, neither will they 
believe though one rose from the dead." 

Ponder these things a little, and remember the moral 
phenomena which the history of man in every age presents ; 
and I fancy you wall be slow to pronounce any of the moral 
portraits of the Bible incredible, however great the moral 
j)aradox they may involve. 

Believe me. 

Yours faitlifully, 

E. E. H. G. 



LETTER L. 

TO 

Sutton, Friday Jan. 12, 1849. 

My dear Youth, 

I have heard, — need I say with dismay ? — from your re- 
lative, and my dear friend, Mr. W , that you have 

become such a "philosopher" as to have discovered the 
inutility of all " prayer," and that you have resolved to 
give it up ! 

Pardon me for saying, that it would have been 
better if you had given up your " pliilosophy " — such 
philosophy, I mean ; for it is a " philosophy falsely so 



"PRAYER." 219 

called." True pliilosopliy demands no such sacrifice ; and 
I hope, from the regard you have for me, you will at least 
read with patient attention what I have to say to you. 

Philosophy ! why, my dear youth, one fact^ which, I am 
told, you acknowledge to be still a puzzle to you, is enough 
to show that a genuine philoso2:)hy, — the philosophy of Ba- 
con, — the philosophy you profess so revere so much, — 
distinctly condemns your conclusion as utterly w?iphilosophi- 
cal. You confess, it seems, that seeing the clear inutility 
of prayer, from the impossibility of supposing God to con- 
travene the " order of antecedents and consequents," or to 
infringe His oa\ti laws, (of all which babble by and bye,) it is 
to you a great " puzzle " that the overwhelming majority 
of the race in all ages, — of j^hilosophers and peasants, — 
of geniuses and blockheads, — of the refined and the vul- 
gar, ' — the bulk even of those who plead for the doctrine 
of " moral necessity " itself, — have contended for the pro- 
priety, the efficacy, the necessity of prayer ! that man, in 
trouble, seems naturally to resort to it ! that, for the most 
part, it is only in prosperity that those who deny its value 
can afford to do so ; that when they come to a scene of dis- 
tress, or a deathbed, even they, in the greater number of 
cases, break out, — if they believe, as you do, in a presiding 
deity at all, — into cries for helj^, and supplications for 
mercy ; just as naturally as they weep when sorroAvful, or 
rejoice when happy ! 

You call these facts a puzzle ; they seem a curious exam- 
ple of human " inconsistency," — of the tardiness of man 
to embrace a genuine philosophy ! Ha ! ha ! ha ! 

I fancy there is another explanation that smacks a little 
more of a geyiuine philosophy. Surely, if the great bulk 
of mankind, all their lives long, whimsically admit in theory 
the propriety and efficacy of prayer, even while they daily 
neglect it in practice, — if multitudes, who would like very 



220 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

well to have a burdensome and unwelcome duty wliicli they 
neglect, proved to be no duty at all, are still invincibly con- 
vinced that it is such, — must not a genuine inductive phi- 
losoj^hy confess that such a concurrence of wise and vulgar, 
of philosophy and instinct, and all too against seeming inte- 
rest and strong passions, — is an indication that the coiisti- 
tution of human nature, itself favors the hypothesis of the 
efficacy and propriety of prayer ? — and, if so, ought not 
that to be taken into account in your philosophy? J^ con- 
tend that it is decisive of the controversy, if you are really 
to jihilosophize on the matter at all. Meantime it seems, you 
account it merely a great puzzle^ amidst that clear demon- 
stration you have, of the inutility and absurdity of prayer ! 

If you say, " I have confessed it is a puzzle ; what does 
it prove ? " — I answer, " Prove ? my fine fellow ; w^hy it 
proves this^ — that the fact which ought to determine your 
philosophy on this question is against you. Yes; — the 
fact which a Bacon would take i^rincipally into account, ut- 
terly refutes you. Stick fairly to your induction^ and I 
will give you leave to infer as long as you will. The facts 
you call a " puzzle " prove that the normal constitution of 
human nature pleads, distinctly, both for the propriety and 
efficacy of j)rayer. Such facts say as plainly of man, he 
w^as made to do this or that, — it is his nature to do this or 
that, — as the fire to burn or the sun to shine. 

If you say, as you do say, " But I cannot accoimt for the 
efficacy of prayer with my belief of ' unvarying laws,' or 
reconcile the practice with my ijhilosopliy^'' the true Ba- 
conian answers, " And w^ho asks you to reconcile, in all 
cases, observed facts with other observed facts, or with sup- 
posed consequences from them ? The question with 'tne is 
as to the facts^ and not as to their reconciliation with other 
facts which I may or may not be able to eflect. There are 
many observed facts in all departments of science which I 



"PRAYER." 221 

know not how to reconcile with others : but I have noth- 
ing to do with that ; I have to do with the facts, and a just 
induction from them." So lar from your objection being 
reasonable, one of the plagues of philosoj^hy is, that men, 
while they profess reverence for Bacon, will thus perpetu- 
ally forget his maxims; and, when they do so, never fail 
to poison science by making their reception of facts depend 
on their hypotheses for reconciling them ! 

Do you not see, then, that if the facts of the case be, 
what I contend and you concede them to be, you in ig- 
noring them and calling them a "puzzle," so far from 
being the Baconian you boast, are rather imitating the 
"schoolmen" whom he derides, — pooh poohing and 
passing by facts because you deem them irreconcilable 
with other facts or presumed facts ? If facts^ your duty, 
as a Baconian, is to receive them into your philosophy, 
even though they be by you utterly irreconcilable. 

And do you not also see that your difficulty may be 
retorted on you? Ought you not to confess to two 
" jiuzzles " instead of one ? Is it not irreconcilable with 
your theory, as a Theist, that an infinitely wise Being 
should have so constituted human nature that man is 
prompted to the exercise of prayer, and usually acknowl- 
edges its duty and propriety even while he neglects it, 
while yet prayer has no significance in the world, and is a 
senseless mockery of the Deity, who nevertheless, it seems 
has necessitated it ? If you will not have any jDhilosophy 
oi facts (which is Bacon's philosophy) till you can recon- 
cile them, be j^leased to reconcile this caprice of God 
in the constitution of human nature with your " unvary- 
ing laws," which tell you that prayer is mockery and folly. 

Will it not sound odd to say that God has instituted 
" iinvarying laws," which render all prayer to Him absurd 
and inefficacious, and yet lins bestowed upon man such a 

19* 



222 THE GKEYSON LETTERS. 

nature that he is normally impelled to offer prayer, and 
even when he does not^ to acknowledge its propriety and 
efficacy, while yet it is an essential absurdity ? I beseech 
you to apply your philosophy of induction impartially. 

If you would but reason in the 2)resent case as you 
would with the Atheist on the question of Theism, you 
would see how illogical was your conclusion. Against 
Mm^ I know you would argue that the normal tendency 
of man to admit a Deity of some kind, — and to manu- 
facture a thousand rather than be without one, — is, in 
your estimation, a strong indication of there being a Deity, 
and of this religious tendency in our nature being be- 
stow^ed by Him ; but whether originating Avith Chance or 
God, you would reasonably argue that it is a j^roof of the 
religious nature of iiian^ and that, as all your philosophy 
must be founded on that nature such as it is, and not as it 
is not^ we must acquiesce in the conclusion that there is a 
Deity, though there be none. You would also, j^^i'haps, 
say that, for that very reason, the enterj^rise of Atheism 
to eradicate this notion from men's minds must be utterly 
futile; and if asked why, you would say that, Avhether 
there be a God or not,/ac^ shows that it is the consti- 
tution of human nature to believe in one, even though 
there be none. Apply a similar argument to this subject 
of prayer, and I fancy you will find it tolerably parallel. 
But you are still more unreasonable in your position than 
the Atheist in his. The Atheist in the parallel case might 
still have to utter a little apologetic nonsense, from which 
you would be debarred. He might say, " Well, admitting 
it to be a principle of our nature that men will believe in 
a God, and that therefore I shan't be able to eradicate it, 
it may have been imj^lanted by that Chance which has 
already done so many other wonderful things ! " But as 
to you, — no such doughty tnachina as chance is at your 



"PRAYER.' 223 

beck; if you admit that the impulse to "prayer," and 
belief in its j^roj^riety and necessity, is a normal flxct in 
the constitution of humanity, — that it is the spontaneous 
conclusion of unsophisticated reason and feeling, — you, 
with your views of an Alhvise Fabricator of man's nature, 
cannot resort to any similar hypothesis. All this I have 
said, because you admit they^c^ adverted to; and I say 
that instead of calling it a "puzzle," and sitting down 
content with that, you are bound to take it into your 
philosophy. Now if you do so, I think you will have as 
insoluble a problem as that supposed "incompatibility of 
prayer with general laws," Avhich induces you to reject all 
23rayer; — namely, an "unvarying law" within man which 
prompts him to l^ray, and " unvarying laws " loitlwut., 
which inform him, it appears, that he will always j^ray to 
to no purpose ! 

But this letter has grown to a greater length than I 
intended ; if I conclude it here, do not suppose that I am 
going to leave your soi-discmt "philosophy" unassailed. 
I say, indeed, that the general facts I have insisted on, 
established by induction, ought to induce you to recant 
your opinion ; but, quite apart from that, I deem it shal- 
low, and, in another letter, will endeavor to i^rove it so. 

Your sincere friend, 

K. E. H. G. 



LETTER LI 

TO THE SAME. 

My DEAR tou:n-g Feiend, 



Jan. 15, 1849. 



") 



I write without waiting for any reply to my last; 
because, of the two, I would prefer letting you have my 
views in full without any answer from you whatever. 



224 THE GREYSON LETTEllS. 

Supposing that fact true on which I have so much 
insisted in my last letter, then, even if I were to admit all 
that your j^hilosophy claims, what would follow ? Why, 
that you could not, as you say, reconcile the " efficacy of 
prayer " with the " unvarying laws of nature." Now, as I 
contend that there are many other things in the coex- 
istence of which you believe, though you cannot reconcile 
them, — as, for example, in the absolute prescience of God, 
and the responsibility of man — His infinite goodness, in 
sj^ite of the permission of evil — and the connection of 
body and mind, though there seems to be utter dissimi- 
larity of substance — (not to mention a hundred more,) — 
I presume I grant you very little, if I concede in the 
present case your impotence to reconcile paradoxical 
truths ; and that you take a great deal more than either I 
or any one else will give you, when you assume that 
because you cannot reconcile " j^rayer " with the "immu- 
tability" of God, and the unvarying oj^eration of His 
laws, therefore the efficacy of prayer is an illusion. 

But now let me examine your i^hilosophy itself, and see 
what it is worth. You say, first, that as "general laws" 
of unvarying uniformity have been enacted by divine 
wisdom, and the Deity is immutable, prayer can have no 
efficacy ; it cannot avert the evil nor proj^itiate the good, 
which, in either case, will and must befall us, whether we 
pray or not; so that to "pray is to play the fool." 

I wish, when you talk of "general laws," you would 
not forget that they are perj^etually modified and trav- 
ersed by laws which have to iis^ all the efiect of special 
laws ; which produce events to us contingent and fortu- 
itous, and which may be, for aught you can prove^ infi- 
nitely varied m operation, relatively to a number of con- 
ditions of which "prayer" maybe one. A house is burned 
down : }'ou say it is the law of fire to burn ; very true — 



** PRAYER." 225 

but when, of five men in it, one escapes and four perish, 
what is the general law which produces these opposite 
results ? A vessel is wrecked, and goes down ; but why 
seven are saved and twenty-seven drowned, it might, in 
like manner, be difficult to show by any general law. 
The results to us are so fortuitous, and so little under the 
dominion of known lav\ that we never dare to spec- 
idate on them; and, by the minutest difference in the 
arrangement of the most trivial circumstances, these re- 
sults may be endlessly modified. Now it is out of these, 
to us, " fortuities," in Avhich, as seen by an infinite intellect, 
there is "law," as everywhere else, though loe can trace 
none, that God selects the instruments of that discipline 
which He exercises over each one of us, and which, for 
aught we can demonstrate^ He may actually vary and 
modify, but, at all events, may have determined before- 
hand shall be "varied and modified," with reference to 
Prayer. Even if one were to sup2:>ose the results mod- 
ified quite ijro re natd^ in reference to the ever-shifting 
conditions of the individual mind, it would be impossible 
for you to disj^rove it, though I deem the notion unphilo- 
sophical; there would be no impossibility in it. The 
Infinite Wisdom that Aveaves " the whole web of our life " 
can, if He pleases, insert a thread or draw out a broken 
one ; and yet the entire plan, except at the point of such 
" callida junctura," may remain as it was, and the general 
result be reached by a slightly varied road. All this 
would, if He pleased, be as easy to Him as for an old 
woman to mend a cabbage-net. But not to insist on this. 
However foreseen and provided for, it is by the aforesaid 
endless intricacies in the operation of " general laws," — 
intricacies which we can never reduce to calculation, 
because they are the result of the intervention of a thou- 
sand secondary laws, more or less general, and of which 



226 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

the condition of "i^rayer" may be one, — that God se- 
cures our absohite dependence on Ilim^ — renders that 
" Prevision " on which proud science is so fond of counting 
as its ultimate triumj^li, an impossible vanity, — and 
ciFectually prevents us, and Avill ever prevent us, with all 
our wisdom, from knowing " what a day or an hour shall 
bring forth." And as by these contingent events — I 
mean contingent to us — He secures our perpetual de- 
pendence, — so Avithin these limits man instinctively feels 
is the sphere of prayer. When we have once ascertained 
a "general law," we never pray that that may cease to 
act : no sane man prays that gravitation may be sus- 
l^ended ; that he may never die ; that if his house catch 
fire, fire may not burn it; but only that things may be 
granted or averted, which, in millions of ways, he sees, 
by experie7ice^ admit of either alternative. 

I see your objection here; but, pardon me, I have 
already anticij)ated both it and the answer to it. You 
will object^ of course, that though the events to which I 
have referred are " fortuities " to us^ they are not so to an 
infinite intellect (which not only I grant, but contend 
for) ; that they have been " pre-arranged," and will take 
effect, in due time and order, in the rigid concatenation of 
"antecedents and consequents." Very well; but not to 
content myself with what I have already said, I answer 
thus : — Must you not grant that the phenomena of men's 
!Minds, as well as all outward events, are among the 
things which enter into this concatenation of pre-arrange- 
ments? 3Inst you not grant that they are among the 
most important " antecedents" of almost all human events? 
Now, can you show that "Prayer" is not one of these 
mental " conditions " and " antecedents " of certain effects? 

Let us suppose, and I am confident I may defy you to 
disprove it, (I indeed believe it is the absolute truth,) that 



"PKAYEll." 227 

amongst other " pre-arrangements " of Divine Wisdom, — 
and to the maintenance of which, therefore, all that " im- 
mutahiUty," on Avhich you found so much, is pledged, — it 
has been decreed that " Prayer " shall be one of the indis- 
pensable conditions of the stable enjoyment of God's favor. 
Let us suppose He has decreed, that, since it is fit and 
right, in itself, that the creatures of His power, the subjects 
of His law, the objects of His bounty, should express their 
homage ; — that since they can be fully hapj^y (as He wills 
they should be) only in the continual recognition of their 
dependence on Him ; — that since, whatever inferior good 
He may bestow upon them, they cannot (such is their 
nature) know what permanent and unalloyed felicity is, but 
in His " favor which is life, and His loving kindness which 
is better than life," — let us suppose, I say, for these rea- 
sons, He has decreed that, as an act of fealty, as an expres- 
sion of gratitude, as a symbol of dependence, as an utterance 
of want, prayer shall be an unvarying pre-requisite of all 
real permanent good ; — that though He may often refuse a 
petition for seeming temporal good, because it is hut seem- 
ing, or refuse it because He intends yet greater good by 
denying, — He has decreed, and for ever, that in the end 
only he shall be truly happy, get what he hopes, and receive 
what he needs, who "seeks His face," — let us suppose, I 
say, all this, (and I am very certain you cannot show its 
improbability or absurdity,) what then ? Why just this, — 
that if this he a condition of the Divine conduct towards 
us, if it be one of the " wise pre-arrangements " — one of 
the " unvarying laws," — your " philosophy," my young 
friend, is still very true, but unluckily confutes your " con- 
clusion ! " I have introduced, you see, but another of your 
pleasant " antecedents," and your little syllogism holds no 
longer. 

If you say you cannot see the reasonahleness of the con; 



228 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

dition itself, as you can of industry being a condition of 
success in life, or uprightness a condition of possessing the 
esteem of others, — I answer, that Z neither know nor can 
conceive of any condition more reasonable than that a 
creature should express his dependence, a beggar appeal 
to a benefactor ; nor anything more reasonable than that 
the Sovereign Beneficence should shed no bounties on those 
who, though in abject poverty, are too proud or too pre- 
sumptuous to seek aid of Infinite Affluence ! 

If you say that you see not how prayer should change 
the purpose of an Immutable Deity, I have replied, on the 
very scheme of your own philosophy, that prayer may be 
one of the antecedents fixed by that very Immutability ; 
and if so, your argument is retorted with interest ; — for 
then 7iot to i^ray is to expect that He will change His " im- 
mutable " purj^ose, and nullify His own conditions of our 
success ! 

If you say, you cannot see a casual connection between 
prayer and its fulfilment, I reply, that you know it is the 
boast of modern philosophy to have discovered that we know 
not the real casual connection between any antecedent and 
its consequent. I am sure, as I have above said, that this 
" antecedent and consequent " may be seen to be as rea- 
sonable as any in the world. 

Finally — I would ask you, why you ever address a prayer 
for aid to your fellow man ? If you say, as doubtless you 
will, " Oh, but he is capable of being moved, — • of having 
his will changed," — I answer, very true ; but go one step 
further back, and see whether you are not in the same 
dilemma as before : for these determinations of your neigh- 
bor's mind are among the " pre-arrangements," elements in 
the huge complications of " general laws," on which you 
lay so much stress ! They are " pre-arranged " before you 
utter a syllabic ; and though whether they shall be in your 



"PliAYEK." 229 

favor or not, is unknown to yoii^ it is all known by the 
Infinite Intellect, and the result has entered into His " pre- 
arrangements." If you say, as it is certain you will say, — 
" But my appeal may be among the pre-arranged methods 
of operating that result, I answer — " Exactly so. Stick 
to that argument ; only remember that it may equally hold 
for the necessity and duty of prayer." 

In short, the mere concatenation of antecedents and con- 
sequents, — even to the admission of the most rigid doctrine 
of" moral necessity," — will not avail to prove the " ineffi- 
cacy of prayer ; " as, indeed, the immense majority of those 
who have advocated that doctrine have never pretended 
anything of the kind. You can only render your argu- 
ment conclusive by turning your " general laws " into the 
Mahometan's " fate ; " and then you may dispense, with 
equal reason, with all conditions of " predestined " events. 
" What is to be is to be ; " that will settle everything for 
you. You may, for that reason, dispense Avith industry as 
a condition of success in your profession, with prudence in 
the choice of a house or a wife, just as with " prayer " as a 
condition of God's blessing. 

If you choose to go thus far, I think you will be consis- 
tent, — but you will certainly be undone. You may say, 
if you please (as, I dare say, a metaphysical sophist would, 
though I hope you would not,) — " Well, my philosophy 
still holds true; — for it seems the 'laws' are unvarying, 
and you have but introduced another ; and as all the phe- 
nomena are concatenated, if I am to pray as an indispensa- 
ble condition, it is already decreed that I shall ; and if not, 
I am exempted from further troubling myself about the 
matter." In that case I shall not think it worth while any 
longer to argue with you ; only remember that if prayer 
be an indispensable pre-condition of God's favor, then if 
you do not pray, you " lose the blessing." If you act on 

20 



230 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

such a theory, you may triumph in your soi-disant philo- 
sophy ; but such a victory, my young Pyrrhus, without 
waiting for another, will ruin you. 

I have not thought it of moment to reply to the logical 
refinement sometimes urged — that even if it be granted 
that prayer is an indispensable pre-condition of the divine 
favor its iuefficacy as a proper cause may still be main- 
tained ; — for I am convinced that you would not urge it 
seriously. As to the events it is all one, and I do not think 
it worth while to discuss such subtleties. 

If a man were to ofier you an estate on the payment of 
a peppercorn rent (and our " prayers " are worth not so 
much to the Deity), it is certain that the man's bounty, 
and not the peppercorn, would be the cause of your good 
fortune ; but as without the peppercorn you would be 
without the estate, I imagine you would have little inclina- 
tion to chop logic Avith him about its being " casual " or 
otherwise. 

It is my unfeigned " prayer," my young friend, that you 
may speedily revise your opinion, and not be " spoiled by 
philosophy and vain deceit," which by the way, in the 
present case, are but different terms for the same thing. 
Ever yours faithfully and affectionately, 

E. E. II. G. 

LETTER LII. 

TO . 

August, 1849. 
My dear Friend, 

So you have really the effrontery to suppose that I 
shall admit your caricature of the doctrine of the Atone- 
ment to be a true picture ! I am resolved to be plain with 
you on this subject, and to tell you, once for all, my mind. 
I shall first vindicate my own views ; but do not imagine I 



THE "ATONEMENT." 231 

shall stop there ; gird your sword-belt tight, for, be assured, 
you shall be j^ut on the defensive before I have done with 
you. But I cannot write to-day. In a day or two expect 
to hear from me. I could not delay, however, sending this 
brief protest against your most odious and unjust car- 
icature. 

In spite of all, 

Your affectionate friend, 

E. E. II. G. 



LETTER LIIL 

TO THE SAME. 

My DEAR Feiend, 

You have discovered, it seems, that you cannot be- 
lieve the " mysterious doctrine of the Atonement." I am 
sure you cannot, neither can jT, if the doctrine of the Atone- 
ment be what you represent it. You will say, perhaps, 
that it is the doctrine of the majority of Christians. I am 
certain it is not ; but if it were, it is not inine, ; and it is 
mine that I am bound to expound, and you to confute. 

I will talk to you in freedom, as we used to do when we 
lived nearer ; with love, as our long friendship demands, 
and with honesty no less claimed by truth. And, my dear 
friend, bear with me, if, here and there, affection seems 
urgent ; for I do, in very truth, believe that the essence of 
the Gospel consists eminently in this one article. And so 
have thought far greater and better men than I pretend to 
be — and (which is significant) have thought so more 
strongly as they grew older, and felt increasmgly, by per- 
sonal experience, the value of what they held so dear. In 
this eminently was their Hope. Thus it was with R. Hall, 
Foster, Chalmers, Dr. Johnson. 



232 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

And now for your fancy sketch. You say, that accord- 
ing to the " current " notions of Christians, " God is repre- 
sented, in moody inexorable wrath, as averse to save man 
till, Moloch-like, He was unjustly propitiated by innocent 
blood ; till Christ's sufferings wrung from Him a sullen and 
ungracious pardon." Who can believe this, you ask ? 
Who, indeed ? I caimot, for one ; but then I know of no 
one else who does. 

I grant that in some bygone ages, and even now, among 
some uneducated folks, that know not how to think clearly 
or to speak justly, — perhaps also in some fanatical or in- 
judicious hymns, of whose authors the same may be said, 
and, of course, in the select but very limited circle of anti- 
nomianism, — you may meet with extravagances of state- 
ment which, more or less, justify your caricature ; but it 
is certain, nevertheless, that it is a caricature, even of the 
most injudicious representations ; and the immense majority 
of Christians would, I am perfectly confident, refuse to ac- 
cept it as their doctrine of the Atonement just as much as 
I do. 

At all events, if it is with ^ne you think you are in con- 
troversy, you are quite mistaken. I reject and abhor your 
description of the doctrine as much as you can do, and you 
must therefore give a very different reply to my arguments ; 
and when I say my arguments, I know I also speak the sen- 
timents of the vast majority of Christians. But at all events, 
be pleased to argue with one. 

In the first place, then, so far from believing God averse 
to save man, I believe that it was the very intensity of His 
desire to do so, (as the New Testament plainly teaches,) 
wliich prompted Him to interpose in our behalf: " God so 
loved the world as to give His only begotten son ; " and as 
to what you say of " injustice^^'' I belive that whatever was 
done, was done with Christ's own perfectly voluntary con- 



THE "ATONEMENT." 233 

currence, as the same book teaches : " No man taketh my 
Hfe from me ; I lay it down of myself." Kow, if this were 
done by Christ's volmitary act, where is the injustice ? 
How, indeed, was it more unjust for God to allow Christ 
thus to lay down His life, of His oicn free-will^ on my the- 
ory than on yours ? I shall presently show that it is at least 
more incomprehensible on yours. For since you admit that 
Christ did not die for any fault of His own, and contend that 
He did not die for any fault of ours, for what did He die, 
and for what reason did God let Him ? On your theory, all 
this not a little perj)lexes me. But I shall come to that 
presently. Depend on it, I shall not fail to ask you for a 
theory of the rationale of Christ's death. 

Well, then, we believe that it was God's intense love for 
man which led Him to adopt so stupendous a method of 
evincing it, and that He justly could do so, because Christ 
was as willing to be " given " for man as God to " give " 
Him. But you say : — " Why could not God forgive the 
sin of man without any such intervention? Could He not 
forgive just as a father can — absolutely and without any 
compensation to law? Who can believe the contrary?" 

jTcan, for one. I do not mean to say that I should be 
justified, — apart from what I deem the revealed fxct, that 
Atonement has been provided, apart from the evidence of 
Scrij^ture on the matter, — in affirming the contradictory of 
your proposition, or in pronouncing at all confidently either 
way. The subject is, in my judgment, " far too high for 
us " to be dealt with a priori. But in spite of the confi- 
dence with which this seemingly simple view of yours is 
often propounded, I do mean to contend that, even by the 
light of nature, (if we enter into the subject at all profound- 
ly,) there is quite as much reason to doubt your theory as 
to affirm it. And the more the subject is investigated, tlie 

20* 



234 THE GUEYSON LETTERS. 

less reason I apprehend will there appear for a summary a 
priori determination of it. 

Nor do I fear lest one of your candor should indulge in 
the usual talk of " absurdity," " antiquated prejudices," and 
the like. I know that you will concede that I am as quali- 
fied by thought and reading to form an opinion as yourself; 
I know you will admit that many minds of the very first or- 
der have also arrived at the same conviction, namely, that 
there may have been, that there may be, a moral impossi- 
bility in the way of proclaiming a universal amnesty to a 
guilty world without some homage, like that of the Atone- 
ment, to the principle of Law. 

To your question, therefore, " Can we conceive that it is 
not always possible for a father to forgive, as a father, sim- 
ply and absolutely ? And cannot God do so too ? " I re- 
ply, it does not follow that even 7nan can forgive his own 
son, simply and absolutely, if he be a King as well as a 
Father : and, for a similar reason, it does not follow that God 
can. And it is precisely here, as I conjecture, that we should 
find, if we could comprehend the entire problem instead of 
a very small part of it, — if we knew the great " arcana " of 
the divine government in all its immensity, — if Ave knew 
all the relations of this world to other worlds, of our race to 
other races, and of the bearings of Time on Eternity, — the 
origin of the real difiiculty in man's salvation, and the ne- 
cessity for the Atonement. We can only reason a little 
way ; but as far as we can reason, I do not flinch from say- 
ing that every fact we know is against the theory of your 
simple unconditional forgiveness. 

We can but reason in reference to a subject so vast, and 
in all its bearings so infinitely transcendental to our com- 
prehension, by analogy. Now it is certain, that in any 
moral government with which we are acquainted, or of 



THE "ATONEMENT." 235 

which we can form any conception, — in any government 
whose subjects are ruled by motives only, and where icill is 
unconstrained, the principle of the prompt unconditional 
pardon of crime on profession of repentance, and purpose of 
amendment, would be most disastrous ; — as we invariably 
see it is, in a family, in a school, in a political community. 
Now, have we any reason to believe that in a government 
most emphatically r)ioral^ — a government of which all the 
moral governments with which we are acquainted are but 
imperfect imitations, and which are, indeed, founded on a 
very partial application of the laws which a jDcrfect moral 
government implies, similar easy good-natured lenity would 
be attended with less ruinous effects? If we have none, 
then, since w^e cannot think that God's government will or 
can cease to be moral ; or that He ever will physically con- 
strain His creatures to be happy or holy, — indeed the very 
notion involves a contradiction in terms, — would not the 
proposed course of universally pardoning guilt on profession 
of penitence prove, in all probability, most calamitous ? Let 
us then suppose (no difficult thing) that God foresaw this ; 
— that such a procedure would be of pernicious consequen- 
ces, not to this world only, but for aught we know, to 
many ; that it would diminish His authority, relax the ties 
of allegiance, invite His subjects to revolt, make them think 
disloyalty a trivial matter ? If so, — and I defy you to 
prove that it may not be so, — then would there not be 
benignity as Avell as justice, mercy as well as equity, in re- 
fusing the exercise of a weak compassion which would de- 
stroy more than it would save ? Let us sui:)pose further, 
that knowing all this, God knew also that His yearning 
compassion for lost and guilty man might be safely gratified 
by such an expedient as the Atonement ; that so far from 
weakening the bonds of allegiance, such an acceptance of a 
voluntary propitiation would strengthen them; tliat it 



236 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

would flash on all worlds an indelible conviction no less of 
His justice than of His mercy; — of His justice that He 
could not pardon without so tremendous a sacrifice, — of 
His mercy that He would not, to gratify it, refrain even 
from this ; — that it would crush for ever that subtle soj^h- 
ism so naturally springing in the heart of man, and which 
gives to temptation its chief power — that God is too mer- 
ciful to punish ; I say, if all this be so, — and I fancy you 
Avill find it difficult to prove that it may not be so, — does 
not the Atonement assume a new aspect ? Is it any longer 
chargeable with absurdity or caprice ? May it not be just- 
ly pronounced a device worthy of divine wisdom and be- 
nignity ? Is it not calculated to secure that which is its 
proposed end? — at once to make justice doubly venerable 
and mercy doubly dear ? — justice more venerable that it 
could not be lightly assuaged ; mercy more dear that it 
would be gratified, though at such a cost ? 

Thus (so far from your representation being just) our 
theory is, that God was intensely desirous, as well as Christ, 
of man's salvation; and that the mode of achieving it, 
though we cannot, a priori^ speculate on it, Avas the result 
of a great moral necessity, which Love was resolved to con- 
front since it could not evade it. And hence it is that so 
many millions, won and vanquished by this spectacle, have 
declared (and this is the only just influence of the doctrine) 
that it is the "Atonement" which has chieflv furnished 
them, as with hope and i^eace, so with the strongest mo- 
tives to revere Justice, to obey Law, to " go and sin no 
more." If you say that the presumed moral necessity for 
some such method of salvation, — which should provide a 
safe amnesty for guilt by securing the law from dishonor, 
is a mere speculation, — I grant that, apart from Scrip>tiire^ 
it is so ; but I also contend that if wo. consider what a moral 
government is, and must ever involve, it is as prohahle^ and 



THE "ATONEMENT." 237 

as truly philosophical^ as the counter-speculation you would 
substitute for it. 

And, after all, must not you too imagine some unknown, 
inscrutable, moral necessity for so astounding a fact as the 
death of Christ ; for the most cruel and agonizing death of 
the only human being who, as you believe not less than I, 
was perfectly innocent, and deserved not to suffer at all ? 
And here, havmg vindicated my view, as intrinsically not 
less probable and philosophical than your own, I proceed to 
show that it is abundantly more so, and to retort upon you, 
with interest, the charges of " caprice " and absurdity. We^ 
at all events, assign an adequate cause of Christ's death ; 
you assign none at all, or none that does not increase the 
difficulty. Yes, my friend, pardon me for saying it, but 
that very argument on which you lay so much stress, name- 
ly, that the Atonement is needless in itself, and presents a 
" savage '' view of the government of God, may, as I con- 
ceive, be retorted, on your theory of the death of Christ, 
with tenfold cogency. But I must reserve the expression 
of my sentiments for another letter. 

Yours sincerely, 

K. E. II. G. 



LETTER LIV. 

TO THE SAME. 

Sept. 1&49. 

My dear Friend, 

Yes, — I repeat, that on your theory the death of Christ 
is an utterly incomprehensible enigma ; we cannot assign, 
we cannot imagine, any reason for a sacrifice at once so cost 
ly, yet so gratuitous. In Christ we have the only example 
(yourself being witness) of perfect and faultless innocence 



238 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

which has ever been exhibited to the world, and we see 
Him, through life, involved in the deepest shades of sor- 
row, and subjected to a death of terrible and mysterious 
agonies ! perfect holiness, perfect obedience to God, perfect 
love to man, requited with more scorn and oppressed with 
more suffering than even the foulest guilt in this world ever 
was subjected to ! And all for — what ? For nothing, ab- 
solutely nothing that is intelligible ! You tell me that He 
suffered as an example to us. As an example? An ex- 
ample of Avhat ? Was it as an example of this — that the 
more men obey and love God, the darker may be the divine 
frown, and the greater the Uahility to suffer imder the in- 
comprehensible mysteries of the divine administration ? So 
that if we were to become absolutely j^erfect as Christ was, 
that moment we might reach the climax of misery ! That 
as He wiio was alone " without spot " was condemned to the 
worst doom, so, for aught we can infer from such an exam- 
ple, innocence and happiness may be in inverse projDortion ! 
If you say He suffered to show us with what sweetness and 
patience ice ought to suffer, — you forget that not only 
would less than such bitterness as His teach that lesson, but 
that His suffering so much more than we do, with no guilt. 
His own or ours, to cause it, unteaches the lesson ; it unhin- 
ges our trust in the divine equity altogether. You forget, 
it seems to me, that there is a double aspect of these suffer- 
ings. How do they affect our ajDprehensions of God ? Can 
we reconcile it with that benignity and equity for which 
you are so jealous, to visit perfect innocence with more sor- 
row than guilt, merely to show the guilty how they ought 
to learn to bear a just j^unishment ? I assure you that, on 
such a theory of the divine administration, the death of 
Christ is to me the darkest blot on the divine government, 
— the most melancholy and perplexing phenomenon of the 



THE "ATONEMENT." 239 

universe, — the most gratuitous apparent departure from 
rectitude and equity with Avhich the spectacle of the divine 
conduct presents us ! • 

And this I feel with double energy and intensity when I 
recall the agony of that prayer with which the Redeemer 
prayed that, " if it were possible," the final horrors might 
be spared Him — " the bitter cup pass away from Him." 

And that this i)rayer did not refer to the transient cloud 
of Gethsemane, but to the prosj^ective horrors of Calvary, 
is, I think, evident from the expressive figure used by our 
Lord at His apprehension, and which is recorded by the 
evangelist who does not record the j)i'^yer in Gethsemane. 
"The cup," says He, "which my Father hath given me to 
drink, shall I not drink it ? " — an expression, Avhich is not 
only, as Paley says, an instance of undesigned harmony in 
the narratives of difierent evangelists, but, as I think, also 
shows, by the character of the metaj^hor, what was the 
meaning of the prayer in the garden. 

Thrice, then. He ofiered that' prayer; and thrice in vain. 
Yet, on your theory, where was the necessity? Why was 
it " imjDossible " that the cup should j)ass from Him ? Im- 
230ssible ? Nothing would seem more easy ; nay, notliing 
more impossible than that, having deserved no sorrow at 
all. His prayer should be uttered in vain ? Is this the way 
in, which you would give us a more attractive view than 
the doctrine of the Atonement affords, of the love of God ? 
Is it by showing us the only being, in human form, who 
never deserved to feel His justice^ striving in vain to j^ro- 
pitiate His 'mercy f 

liVe^ at least, assign an adequate cause of all this mys- 
tery ; loe suppose that it was to rescue a lost world that 
God "willed" that "the cup should not pass from Him;" 
and that Christ, who thus prayed, also " willed " to drink 
it rather than decline it, at such a cost as the fi-ustration of 



240 THE GREY SON LETTERS. 

His divine compassion and tlie surrender of a world to per- 
dition. But you, what reason can you assign ? Is it a 
more conciliating view of the divine justice and love that 
they tlius afflicted innocence for nothing? or nothing that 
is intelligible ? and in spite of its own heart-rending cries 
that if any other expedient remained within the reach of 
Omnipotence itself, Omnipotence taxed to the uttermost 
of its resources, that " cu^d might ^^ass away ? " 

So deeply do I feel the dark shadow Avhich this view 
throws over the divine administration, that even if. the pos- 
itive texts for the reality of the " Atonement " were less 
numerous and decisive than I conceive they are, this mys- 
terious spectacle of Perfect Innocence treated by Divine 
Justice more severely than guilt, for no imaginable neces- 
sity, would go far to convince me of the truth of the doc- 
trine ; but when I further compare all the inferences from 
the transaction itself with the testimony of Scripture, — 
when I see how naturally the doctrine harmonizes with the 
entire strain of Revelation, — with ancient rite and sacri- 
fice, — with dogmatic statement and casual allusion, — with 
imagery, type and symbol, — with direct assertion and 
oblique reference, — I am beyond all doubt that the doc- 
trine of the Atonement is a genuine doctrine of Chris- 
tianity. 

Such, my friend, is my view of the Atonement ; not le^is 
philosophical, I contend, even vicAved, a priori^ than any 
other which human reason can devise ; more naturally sus- 
tained by the prevailing language of Scripture ; and neces- 
sary^ if we Avould not render the death of Christ (so far 
from being a relief) a terrible aggravation of all the diffi- 
culties of the divine administration, — an inscrutable mys- 
tery, far harder than the doctrine of the Atonement itself! 
Argue against this doctrine, if you like, and I will weigh 
with scrupulous conscientiousness every syllable on so vital 



THE "ATONEMENT." 241 

a tlieme ; but your argument must not be against a j^han- 
tom of your own creation, wJiich I renounce as much as 
you ; it must be founded on no supposition of the divine 
reluctance to save — for it was God's love which provided 
the sacrifice ; nor on jjresumed injustice in the infliction — 
for Christ Himself ap23roved it ; nor on the fancy that we 
hold some base huckstering theory of precisely so many 
ounces of suffering for so many ounces — parsimoni- 
ously w^eighed out — of mercy! This is absurd per se, 
for hoB^ can transient suffering be exactly equal to pangs 
of eternal duration? — it is derogatory to the divine 
mercy, for if justice exact a precise quid pro qico, where is 
the scoj)e for mercy at all? — and it is utterly unnecessary, 
for the homage to law consists in the principle of the 
Atonement, not in the amount of suffering. 

You must avoid, therefore, all such abjured views, or you 
will not touch 07ie ; while your cnmi theory must fairly an- 
swer those objections to the divine equity, goodness, and 
love, which, as I have endeavored to show, may be justly 
retorted on it. And remember that if you insist on the 
injustice of God's inflicting suffering on Christ for the sins 
of others, you cannot escape similar difficulty, and greater 
in degree, on your own system ; for can it be less unjust to 
inflict such sufferings on Christ for no sins at all f If it 
be unjust to accept Him as a sacrifice for the guilty, liow 
much more unjust must it be to insist on the sacrifice for 
nothing, and when the victim thrice implored in agony that, 
" if it w^ere possible," the " cuj) might pass fi'om Him ? " 

You are bound to demonstrate the " «w2possibility." How 
you should do so on your hypothesis is to me utterly in- 
conceivable ; for you say that God can, wdth utmost ease, 
pardon guilt without any compensation to His justice ; if 
so, where could be the difficulty of sparing innocence ? — 
rather, how w^as it possible to do otherwise? Till you 

21 



242 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

answer these things fairly and fully, I shall continue to 
believe the doctrine of the Atonement not only more con- 
sonant to Scripture, but a more rational account of Christ's 

Death, that your own. 

Ever yours, 

E. E. II. G. 



LETTER LV. 

TO ALFEED WEST, ESQ. 

Friday, May 11, 1849. 
My dear Friend, 

If it be the climax of virtue to have practised it till duty 
is transformed into j^leasure, — as I am inclined to believe 
it is, — I am far enough at i:>resent from having attained 
that j)oint. On the contrary, I find — confess, now, that it 
is the same with you — that things pleasant enough in 
themselves, at least not painful, become, the moment they 
assume the shape of duties, irksome. They j^ut on, as it 
were, a stiff, starched dress, and lose all their alluring, se- 
ductive looks. 

I will give you a whimsical illustration of this. In my 
recent anonymous brochure^ which met with more appro- 
bation from the public than perhaps it deserved, — cer- 
tainly more than I expected, — I felt, with my accustomed 
fastidiousness, when it came out, that a thousand things 
might be altered for the better. As I impatiently glanced 
over it, I felt, mingled with mortification, a positive j^lea- 
sure in mentally making improvements, — adding something 
here, expunging something there, — gi^dng a phrase a new 
turn, — illustrating a bare thought by an image or metaj^hor. 
The task, thus voluntarily prosecuted, was a j^ositive delight. 
When, a few days ago, it was intimated that a new edition 
was called for, and I was requested to furnish the j^iiuter 



SYMPTOMS OF IMPERFECT VIRTUE. 243 

with any alterations I might be meditating by a fixed day, 
it is inexpressible Avith what reluctance I tm-ned to the 
task ; and the thought that it must be done by a certain 
time has turned a j^leasant amusement into insui3poi'table 
drudgery. But what perverseness ! The task is the same : 
and why should the thought that it ought to be done make 
it less pleasant ? I have therefore set to work with a v:ill^ 
and am reaj^ing my reward by finding that the task is be- 
coming less a task as I j^ursue it, though duty has unques- 
tionably marred the pleasure. 

In the same way I have often found that if it be neces- 
sary to read a given book on a given day, there is not a 
book, out of the five thousand I have around me, that I 
would not rather take up than that ! 

I have somewhere read — and so have you I doubt not — 
of a petty German despot who, having heard that an old 
woman of seventy had never been beyond the precincts of 
her native city, thought he should like to " have it to say " 
(what is too costly or cruel for a desj^ot if he " would like 
to have something to say ! ") that one who had lived to be 
a very old woman had never been beyond the limits of 
the city, and therefore decreed that she should never be 
permitted to do so. It is said that the ^ooy old lady so 
laid to heart the loss of that liberty which she had volun- 
tarily lived mthout, all her life, that she took to her bed, 
and died in a few days ! Surely human nature is the very 
image of that old woman. 

We might at least learn, one would think, to submit 
without gi'umbling to any necessity, which, so long as it 
was no necessity, was not only submitted to without com- 
plaint, but was embraced as a pleasure ! It was a smart 
saying of Locke, " Let your will go whither necessity would 
drive, and you will always preserve your liberty." Very 
true — very sagacious, but rather difficult to practise. Simi- 



244: THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

larly we may say, make duty your pleasure^ and it will be 
just the same thing as pleasure; but, like the other, it is 
more easily said than done. The culmination of virtue — 
and no doubt, by "perseverance in well doing," we may 
approximate to it, though in heaven alone we shall fully 
attain it — is to find pleasure in duty, as such ; to find not 
only that duty does not — as in my absurd condition, so 
frankly confessed, it often does, — make pleasure itself 
irksome, but that, when not absolutely painful, (and in 
heaven I suppose there will be no painful duties,) it is in 
itself a distinct source of pleasure. I believe even now, 
and in our imperfect condition, that the hamng done our 
duty is a source of greater pleasure than an;yi:hing else ; 
but then it is the having done it, I fear. We enjoy it by 
a reflex act, and possibly often linger so long in complacent 
retrospect, that we forget the next duty in admiring our- 
selves ! If we could but feel pleasure in duty while it was 
a-doing, how happy should we be, for we should then be 
happy all the day long ! And it will be so if we persevere. 
" At first we cannot serve God," says Jeremy Taylor, " but 
by doing violence to all our wilder inclinations. The sec- 
ond days of virtue are 2:>leasant and easy in the midst of 
all the appendant labors. But when the Christian's last pit is 
digged, when he is descended to his grave and hath finished 
his state of sorrows and suffering, then God opens the river 
of abundance, — the river of life and never ceasing felici- 
ties." But so different from this is the condition of men 
in general, that I almost think one of the best ways of 
teaching some duties would be to enjoin the due and regu- 
lar abstinence from them. Tell a lazy man that he is never 
to get out of bed till ten in the day, and, my life for it, he 
will fall in love with early rising. Tell an irreligious man 
that he shnll lK'^•er enter a church, and there you will 
straightway find him. Certainly, in the present amiable 



UNCONSCIOUS PROFUNDITY. 245 

condition of man, the very presence of a law is a great pro- 
vocative to neglect or violate it — a fact to which the Apos- 
tle seems to allude in the seventh of Romans ; a passage, by 
the way, which ought not to have caused all the pother it 
has among the commentators. 

I was amused by your defending yourself against the 
charge of negligence in writing, before you were accused. 
I am sure I said nothing, and, what is more, meant nothing. 
by my silence. It is a self-betrayal second only to that of 
the good Athenian in Hierocles. He told his Spartan friend, 
who had commissioned him to purchase some books, that 
he had " never received the letter about the books." " Let 
me tell you," said a West Indian proprietor to his assembled 
slaves, after some theft of which he wished to detect the 
perpetrator, " Let me tell you that it is in vain for you to 
attempt concealment ; for he who has committed the deed 
will find a tumor sprouting out of the tip of his nose, which 
will effectually betray him." Up went the finger of the 
luckless criminal to see whether the threatened i)imple was 
a-coming — and so he was detected. My remarks on 
negligent correspondents were quite general ; but you have 
put your finger to your nose, and stand self-confessed. 

Yours truly, 

E. E. II. G. 



LETTER LVI. 

TO THE SAME. 

Arran, Monday, July 23, 1849. 

My DEAR Feiend, 

I casually met the day before yesterday, on board a 
Clyde steamer, with one of those rare youths at whom we 
have so often laughed, who have seduced themselves into 
the belief that they have obtained a profound knowledge 

21* 



246 THE GREYBON LETTERS. 

of philosophy, by muddling their brains with dark transla- 
tions of German metaphysicians, and the writings of tliose 
geniuses for obscurity who have so successfully imitated 
them in this country. Certainly there are minds Avhich, 
like certain surfaces, absorb all the colors of light, and re- 
flect you back only an aspect of perfect blackness: and 
they deserve to be called the Hottentots of Philosophy. 
What share vanity may have in affecting to know what 
others cannot pretend to understand, I cannot say ; but 
these folks will go on using phrases, and terms of art, of 
marvellous vagueness, and exchanging formulae of pro- 
digious generality, just as if they had a meaning. Yet 
let me tell you, from my recent experience, that you can 
get on with them remarkably well. " By stopping them," 
you will say, " and requesting a rigid definition of their 
dark terms of art." Why, in that case, you would not get 
on at all. Your philosopher would be arrested at once. 
" How, then ? " you will say. If you have a pretty good 
memory and a little invention, nothing more easy ; be as 
profound as himself; assent to what he says, though you 
do not understand, and reply to it with something which 
you understand as little, and which he will as little under- 
stand. Let it be what it will, however, if it be sufficiently 
dark, he will be afraid not to appear to understand. Go 
on boldly with the same imposing obscurities 2Ci\^ formulate 
with the same tremendous sounding phrases, and rely on it, 
you are as safe as he is. It is a great advantage of this 
species of philosophy, that you may be profound in it with- 
out having passed your novitiate, and talk a deal of deep 
metaphysics Avithout knowing it. 

We began on Kant, and did not absolutely desert day- 
light as long as we kept by him ; at least we were in twi- 
liglit ; for he had a meaning, and often a profound one, 
though expressed in the most uncouth style which Philo- 



UNCONSCIOUS TROFUNDITY. 247 

sopliy — not in his case "musical as is Aj)ollo's lute" — 
ever mumbled in. 

But we soon made a deep plunge into utter midnight, 
and my young friend and I both frantically laid hold of 
anything in tlie darkness, — terms and words, that is to 
say, without any definite meaning, — just to keep ourselves 
up. I am sure we both did admirably, if anybody could 
but have comprehended it. 

He said that he did not see anything so very difficult in 
Hegel's paradox, — which sciolists had made such a pother 
about, — that " nothing " is equal to " being," and that if 
"being and nothing be conjoined, you have existence." 
He asked me what I thought of it ? I told him that noth- 
ing could in my appreliension be more j^rofound ; and that 
it became as lucid as profound, if we only remember Hegel's 
theory of " the evolution of the concrete." According to 
that theory (he must remember, I was sure,) " the concrete 
is the idea^ which, as a unity, is variously determined, — 
having the principle of its activity in itself, while the origin 
of the activity, the act itself, and the result are one, and 
constitute the concrete.'^'* " Precisely so," said he ; " the 
hmate contradiction of the concrete is the basis of its de- 
velopment, and though difierences arise, they at last vanish 
into unity. To use the words of Hegel, there is ' both the 
movement and repose in the movement. The difference 
hardly appears before it disappears, whereupon there issues 
from it a full and concrete unity.' " I was glad to hear it. 

Having thus discussed, though in a somewhat abstract 
form, the theory of the " concrete," he proceeded to say 
that all this throws admirable light on the great philoso- 
pher's statement that the Idea^ concrete and self-developing, 
is an organical system, — a whole comprehending in itself 
indefinite treasures of degrees and momenta; while phi- 
losophy is nothing in the world but the knowledge of this 



248 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

evolution, and, so far as it is systematic and self-conscious 
thought, it is the very evolution itself." To such elemen- 
tary statement I could not but nod in acquiescence. 

We then got on to the Hegelian "Absolute." " This," said 
lie, " is nothing but a continual ' process of thinking,' vnth- 
out beginning and loithoiit endP About this last, too, I 
made no difficulty ; on the contrary, I firmly believed it ; so 
that we were still entirely unanimous. " Now," said he, 
" that the evolution of ideas in the human mind is the process 
of all existence — the essence of the Absolute — of a Deity, 
so that Deify is nothing more than the absolute ever 
striving to realize itself in human consciousness," — (very 
imperfectly as yet, thought I, if Hegelian consciousness be 
the criterion), — "who can doubt?" Without venturing 
to contest so j^lain a doctrine, I asked him whether, never- 
theless, there was not a little to be said for Schelling's 
notion that the rythmical law of all existence is cognizable 
at the same time by the internal consciousness of the sub- 
jective self, in the objective operation of Nature ? He said 
he saw clearly enough its great ingenuity, — which was 
more than I could, — but thought his " three movements 
or potencies, — that of ' Reflexion,' whereby the Infinite 
strives to realize itself in the Finite, — that of ' Subsump- 
tion,' which is the striving of the Absolute to return from 
the Finite to the Infinite, — and that of the ' IndiflTerence- 
point,' or j^oint of junction of the two first, — were not to 
be admitted ; for," said he, " is it not clear as the day that 
the poles ever persist in remaining apart — the indifference- 
point having never been fixed by Schelling." I could not 
help thinking it would be by his readers; however, I 
gravely told him I thought it was a very serious objection, 
and I should duly consider it. 

I said I could not wonder that many, who had not our 
light, should refuse to allow, with Fichte, that "the ine was 



UNCONSCIOUS PROFUNDITY. 219 

the absolute generating principle of all things," or the 
great Hegel's theory of the identity of object and subject. 
To this he shrugged his shoulders ; — as much as to say, 
the evolution of the process of " eternal thinking," which 
constitutes God and all philosophy, is uncommonly slow in 
mankind — that's a fact. But he added that there could 
" not be the shadow of a doubt that the ' subjective ' and 
* objective' were really one, and that by their junction is 
constituted the only reality, which, Avhether we call it the 
subject-object or object-subject, is of not the slightest con- 
sequence in the world." I acquiesced entirely in that last 
observation ; yet I could not but feel, I told him, that the 
" poles of all existence, though the indifference-j)oint Avas 
thus found, seemed, after all, to be annihilated by coales- 
cing ; " and that I still found some little difficulty about tlie 
" process of thought assuming the objective form it does in 
nature y " and asked him whether he coincided in Hegel's 
solution of this difficulty — namely, that there is a " descent 
of the absolute idea from subject-object into a state of 
separation ? " He condescended to acknowledge that it 
was one of the great difficulties of Hegel's system. I asked, 
Avhether, in the supposed case, the relation^ which was the 
sole reality, between the subjective and objective would 
not be altered ? He was pleased to say that that question 
touched the very quintessence of the whole system, and 
that it was a good deal to the purpose. Perhaps it was ; 
and, at any rate, I was very glad to hear that I had spoken 
so much to the purpose without knowing it. I rather think 
it staggered him, as I am sure it did me, for I know no 
more than the dead what was the meaning of it. 

"Again," said I, as if it had something to do with the 
subject, or at least the subject-object, — and perhaps it 
had, for I do not clearly see what was the subject, or our 
object — " since Hegel begins with zero, and evolves the 



250 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

universe by a logical process of thought without any realistic 
stand-point, is there not some difficulty in conceiving how 
' the process of thought ' (to use his words) can ever exter- 
nalize itself into the region of nature ? " " Phenomenally," 
said he, " it may." " Phenomenally," said I, " no doubt it 
may ; and so perhaj)s the subjectivity of the mind, subjec- 
tifying the objective in nature, leaves the subject-object 
still one." 

In spite of all difficulties of this trivial kind, he expressed 
himself delighted with the Hegehan philosophy, and espec- 
ially its simplicity of conception ; it began, he said, avow- 
edly on the principle that in the analysis of thought, as 
" identical with existence, we must take the very emptiest, 
most meaningless, and abstract notions we can find." I ad- 
mitted that Hegel had in that succeeded admirably. 

We then had some equally interesting conversation on 
Fichte's system ; but we both thought that it was impossi- 
ble to acquiesce in his notion — that the me gave its entire 
reality to the not-me^ — especially as the reality which the 
me, in that case, transfers to the not-me^ it must get, after 
all, from the me / so that the me constructs the not-me. 
Yet every fool imagines the not-me different from the me. 
On the other hand, according to this theory, the not-me 
most evidently limits the we — though itself non-existent ex- 
cept as a limitation of me ! Who could admit this ? — The 
plausibility of Fichte's theory, however, he conceded, and 
the clearness with which it was expressed^ to which I, of 
course, cheerfully assented. 

We now happily drew near Dunoon, where he said he 
was about to stop. I begged to know Avhat book he had 
in his hand ? He said it was the " Physio-PhilosoiAy " of 
Oken, and asked me if I had ever read it ? — as if I could 
be ignorant of so profound a philosopher ! He remarked 
that it was one of the greatest contributions to science in 



UNCONSCIOUS PROFUNDITY. 251 

our time, and wondered that shallow folks should have com- 
plained of its being inserted in the publications of the " Ray 
Society." I frankly acknowledged there were some few 
things in it I could not satisfactorily comprehend, on Avliich 
I thought he looked a little pleased at his own superiority. 
" For example," said I, opening the book at random, *' I 
should be obliged if you would explain what is meant by 
this passage?" — I had no difficulty in pitching on one as 
dark as Tartarus. 

To any one else, I dare say, it would have been a poser ; 
but, from what I saw of my young friend's profundity, I 
have no doubt he would have made it all as clear as he had 
done the philosophy of Hegel. He reluctantly excused him- 
self, as the boat was just about to stop. 

He took leave of me with the most flattering expressions 
of pleasure at having fallen in with one who took a kindred 
interest in his favorite studies, and hoped we should shortly 
meet again ; — a hope which I devoutly hope may be dis- 
appointed. 

I felt exceedingly elated, however, at having been able 
BO creditably to take my j^lace with a deep philosopher, 
without my knowing or his knowing a syllable that we had 
been talking about. And I suspect he parted from me still 
better pleased. Milton records with innocent vanity, that 
he reflected with satisfaction that he had not unworthily 
supported his part in a Latin conversation with some foreign 
ambassadors, when they did him the honor of dining Avith 
him, or, as we should now say, when he did them the hon- 
our of entertaining them ; for thus does the " whirligig of 
time bring about the revenges " of genius, and the poet 
takes precedence of all ambassadors. You remember what 
is told of Leibnitz, that being anxious to gain admission to 
the society of some alchemical adepts, he took sundry books 
of their delusive art, and stringing together at random all 



252 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

the very hardest terms he could find, sent his lucubration to 
them as a card of introduction. They were astounded at 
one who could write so profoundly on their favorite sci- 
ence, and admitted him at once. 

You think, perhaps, that it would require a good memory 
to recall some of the terms and phrases with which my 
"profundissimus" and I pelted one another. That is per- 
haps true ; but you need not always stop for that ; combine 
the hardest and most general terms, — the more incompre- 
hensible the better, — and, bandied to and fro, they will 
seem alive with a vague meaning, like an old scarecrow 
fluttering: in the wind. That is sufficient. And to convince 
you, I may tell you that some of the things I said were com- 
binations a la mode Leibnitz ; and yet I fancy I may defy 

you, or even your ingenious friend T M , to say 

which is lohich. If you try, take heed ; for perhaps you 
will find I can trap you by citing chapter and verse, where 
you think I have been extemporizing ! 

Campbell says, and says truly, that we are not to suppose 
that everything which is unintelligible is absurd, since we 
cannot pronounce on its truth or falsity; — therefore be 
l^leased to regard the utterances above with mysterious rev- 
erence. " When the Teutonic theosopher," says the acute 
critic, " enounces that ' all the voices of the celestial joyful- 
ness qualify, commix, and harmonize in the fire which was 
from eternity in the good quality,' I should think it equally 
impertinent to aver the falsity as the truth of this enuncia- 
tion." 

Believe me. 

Yours ever truly, 

E. E. H. G. 



HUMAN INCONSISTENCIES 253 

LETTER LVII. 

TO C. MASON, ESQ. 

Arran, July 30, 1849 

My dear Mas ox, 

And so you are really surprised at the inconsistency of 
your patient's sending for you, and requesting your advice 
and medicine, while he neglected the one and never took 
the other ? Well, you can easily take your revenge by mak- 
ing him pay for both. He, at all events, is not so bad as 
patients sometimes are who ask whether they may do that 
they have already done. " Pray, doctor," says a joatient in 
a wheedling way, " don't you think I might take a glass of 
wine now ? " " No — not yet — it would not be safe," says 
the doctor, with a solemn air. " Oh because I did take one 
yesterday, and it seemed to do me so much good ! " I 
have heard a medical friend say that this sort of ex post 
facto justification, (at the doctor's expense too,) is the " un- 
kindest " of all the cuts a doctor can receive from a patient. 

An inhabitant of this world ought to wonder at nothing ; 
at all events, pray keep any such emotion for greater rari- 
ties than human inconsistencies. The schism between the 
Pope and anti-Pope within us — between the Understand- 
ing and the Will, — the Head and the Heart, — the Con- 
science and the Passions, — the thoughts and the lips, is 
daily manifesting itself, in effects sometimes ludicrous, some- 
times lamentable. A whole volume might be filled, not only 
with instances of maxims consciously contradicted by prac- 
tice, (for if these were all recorded, " the world itself could 
not contain the books that would be written,") but of utterly 
unconscious inconsistency ; of sense and wisdom often 
expressed in the dialects of folly — of vices that fancy them- 
selves virtues, of religion masquerading itself in every form 

22 



254 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

of blind zeal and ferocious cruelty. We laugh at Gold- 
smith's soldier, expressing, in profane oaths, his fears for 
the extinction of religion, and at the debtor in jail, telling 
the said soldier, from behind the grating, that his chief 
alarm is for public liberty ; but though these are fictitious 
examples, they maybe matched in the history of human na- 
ture, and do not go beyond it. Similarly Sheridan's Sir 
Anthony, who, in a towering passion, asks his son " what 
the devil good can passion do ? Can't you be cool like one P"* 
is a picture most of us have seen under some modifications 
or other. Parson Adams, enchanted with the sentiments 
of his travelling acquaintance as to that contemptible vice 
of " vanity," regrets, as he fumbles in his pocket, that he 
has left behind him the sermon in which he had endeavor- 
ed to improve the topic, and which he would have felt such 
jDleasure in reading to him ! It is by no means without a 
parallel. 

A Scotch friend of mine was recently at a public dinner. 
A clergyman of the town was requested to "say grace." 
He did it, with unusual propriety. On sitting down, a 
young man whispered to my friend, with all the seriousness 
in the world, "A devilish good grace that !" 

Another, talking to some Scotch " Andrew Fairservice," 
whose religious " assurance " (in more than one sense) was 
such that he professed to live without the shadow of a doubt, 
fear, or perplexity respecting his spiritual condition, asked 
him whether he really meant what he said ? — " De'il doot 
it, mon," was the rej^ly. 

There can be no doubt that Defoe had an unfeigned res- 
pect for morality and religion, and that he sincerely design- 
ed his Avritings to serve both. Yet how whimsical the 
practical inconsistency which led him to suppose that the 
" History of Moll Flanders," of " Roxana, the Fortunate 
Mistress," of " Colonel Jack," could by any possibility an- 



HUMAN IXCOXSISTENCIES. 255 

swer this end! One would as soon expect virtue to be 
promoted by the " prurient " discussions of certain casuists 
whose canons for forming a superhuman purity contain, as 
Fuller wittily expresses it, " the criticisms of all obscenity." 
I met with a droll instance of practical inconsistency the 
other day in a sermon of my old favorite Jeremy Taylor. 
It is that on the " good and evil tongue." He takes occa- 
sion to illustrate the text, " for every idle word we must 
give account j " and he does so by indulging in a whole 
paragraph of as idle words as ever came out of a preacher's 
mouth. They are full of Latin quotations which must have 
been utterly unintelligible to his audience, and not a few of 
them very solemnly impertinent had they been otherwise. 
He completes a long tesselation from the Fathers by telling 
his wondering hearers " that St. Gregory calls every word 
vain or idle, quod aut ratione justa3 necessitatis aut inten- 
tione pisB utilitatis caret ; and St. Jerome calls it vain, quod 
sine utilitate et loquentis decitur et audientis — which profits 
neither the speaker nor the hearer." He then duly con- 
firms it by Chrysostom and Gregory Nyssen, and says it 
seems intimated in the word kcvov prjixa or p^/xa apyovl 
Would that all inconsistencies of men were as trivial as these. 
But how shall we wonder at any, when we find thousands 
daily indulging in habits which they themselves are persua- 
ded will ruin them, body and soul ; and, while professing to 
desire happiness above all things, nevertheless persisting in 
walking right on with their eyes open in a path which they 
know beforehand can end only in misery ? 

Yours ever, 

E. E. H. G. 



256 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 



LETTER LVIII. 

TO ALFRED WEST, ESQ. 

London, Tuesday, Oct. 18, 1819. 
My dear West, 

You know my old failing; — always a little behind the 
clock, five minutes or so; or else the clock is always a lit- 
tle before me — I sometimes think that is the real secret 
of my seeming want of punctuality. 

Tliis failing suggested to me the other night a very ab- 
surd dream. Methought I was striding up Fleet street in 
the vain hope of overtaking an engagement the exact mo- 
ment of which had already j^assed, — for I was, as usual, 
a little behind my time, — when I saw in a window, in large 
characters, the inscri23tion, " Waste time sold here." This, 
said I to myself, is the very thing for me ; I will just step 
in and buy a quarter of an hour or so. But seeing other 
placards in the window, I stayed for a minute to examine 
them. " It does not matter," said I to myself, " about the 
loss of a minute or two which I can now so easily repair." 
I found the other notices of a jDiece with the first. In one place 
I read — "Some excellent lotsof time, — consisting of a week 
and some days each, — to be immediately disposed of on 
the most advantageous terms," — in another, fifty-two Sun- 
days to be sold, a bargain," — in a third, " the whole of 
that eligible month of February in lea]^ year — twent}'- 
nine days, to be sold ; nothing charged for the odd day ; " 
" Exchanges effected on the most reasonable terms — com- 
mission not exceeding five minutes per centr You will 
l^erhaps think I Avas a little surprised at all this ; perj^lexed 
Avith sundry impossibilities which might be naturally sup- 
posed to stand in the way of such bargains and exclianges. 
You are mistaken; I felt no such suri)rise at all. The 



A DUE AM. 257 

only thing that surprised me was, that so admirable and 
reasonable an arrangement had not been hit upon long 
before. "In a world," said I to myself, "where money 
answereth all things, as the wise man saith, — where goods 
and chattels, houses and lands, character and fame, are all 
bought and sold, it is very strange that we should never 
have thought of buying and selling time before." Your 
only true logician is sleep. It can make you incontinently 
believe anything, and unsay, in an instant, every fact, max- 
im, and 2^rinciple which you had held indisputable u]) to 
the very moment you laid your head upon your pilloAV. It 
can prove any conclusion it pleases from any premises, or, 
if need be, without any ^^remises at all. It can do all that 
logicians say cannot be done, and convince logicians them- 
selves that their logic is wrong. IsTo wonder then that I 
was not startled to find that I could, if I pleased, purchase 
a quarter of an hour at a shop counter, and come away Avith 
it safe in my pocket. On my waking, I certainly regretted 
that there was no such office — for I dare say I should 
often have droj^j^ed in to do a little business. I could not 
help indulging myself in fancpng some of the odd scenes 
Ave should witness if the time Avhich hangs upon men's 
hands, and Avhich they know not Avliat to do Avith, Avere an 
exchangeable commodity, instead of being simply suffered 
to run to waste, like the Avater of a stream AA^hen the mill 
is not at work. 

It would be surely couA'-enient, if those AAdio haA^e more 
time than they Avant could sell it to those who can employ 
it, or think they can employ it, to better purpose ; or if we 
could effect exchanges of time Avith mutual advantage. 
You have a day you knoAV not what to do Avith — another 
Avishes for tAvo days in one ; he has one a fortnight hence 
AAdiich he Avouldbe glad to partAvith — you exchange yours 
for it ; and thus tedium Avould be prevented on both sides ! 

22* 



258 THE GUEYSON LETTERS. 

TliG last metliod, indeed, Avould be a reasonable bargain, 
and all could understand it, for human life would be none 
the shorter for it ; longer indeed, if we measure life (as we 
surely ought) rather by what we do and enjoy, than by the 
hours which pass in vacant indolence. But it might be 
imagined at first that none Avould have any time absolutely 
to sell. Is it credible, we are ready to ask, that beings who 
are continually complaining of the brevity of human life 
can be willing to make it shorter? Yet I make no doubt 
there would be j^lenty of business, even of this kind, for 
such an office to transact. We know but little of human 
nature, if we do not know that whatever it may say about 
the shortness of life, most men are firmly convinced that 
life is ten times too long ! Half our time is spent in de- 
vising methods of wasting it, and half the remaining half 
in putting them into execution. The only hours of life 
worth much, in the estimation of the giddy and thought- 
less, are those spent in pleasures which they cannot cheaply 
and readily make for themselves, but which they must wait 
for time to bring them ; they know not how to fill up the 
interval with j^leasures of their own creating, and so can 
rarely wait with j^atience. The moment they see a lively 
pleasure in prospect, — be it an hour, a day, or a month 
hence, — they think the interval between the present in- 
stant and its arrival, as Avorse than useless and would be 
glad to have it annihilated on any terms. Nothing would 
be more common, I dare say, if my imaginary office were 
in existence, than for a lover to sell whole weeks previous 
to the wedding, from the sheer impossibility of enduring 
the tedium ; while an alderman would gladly purchase a 
blissful oblivion for some hours before a turtle feast, to rid 
himself of the torment of expectation between the promise 
and the fulfilment. And as to Sundays, — how many a 
young scapegrace would sell the whole fifty-two in a bun- 



A DllEAM. 259 

die,. — except, perhaps, when Christmas Day falls on one 
of them ? It is amusing, too, to think that, like all other 
markets, the time-market would have its fluctuations. 
There would be time when time would be a drug, and time 
Avhen time would be dear — according to the season ; as 
there are times for every thing, so there would be times for 
" time " itself; for though one hour is as like another as 
one egg is like another, and intrinsically of equal value, the 
su})ply and the demand must chiefly determine their price. 
In a season of pressing business or public merry-making, 
how Avould hours be at a premium, while Sundays and fast 
days, I suspect, would go almost for nothing! Many a 
young rogue, I doubt, would mortgage his whole church- 
time up to fifty years of age ; while during Lent in Catho- 
lic countries, and the Ramadan in Mahometan, there Avould 
be an absolute glut, and the time-broker have more time 
on his hands than he would know what to do with. 

So much the better, you may say, for those devout souls 
who would know the true value of time ; who might steal 
into the market to purchase an additional day or two for 
spiritual pleasures ; or haggle for a score or two of cheap 
Sundays to enable them to get through a folio or two of 
sermons and homilies ! Such customers would be rare. No 
doubt, however, many would go with a long face, under 
the pretence of transacting such business, and emj^loy the 
time which they got in a very diflerent manner, A curious 
thing is the human heart ; it likes to play the fool under 
the mask of wisdom, and to practise even vice, if possible, 
with the credit of virtue. 

I had a droll example of human impatience in my dream. 
Methought a couple of demure looking persons, one a 
young man — the other a young woman — came in, and 
reversed what, I fancy, Avould be the usual pro2')osals. In- 
stead of wishing to sell the Sunday and buy the Aveek, they 



260 THE GREYSON LETTERS 

wished to pass the week in oblivion, and were impatient for 
the Sunday to come. I was ahnost betrayed into the folly 
of supposing it was out of sheer devotion. But it turned 
out that the banns of their marriage were to be pubhshed 
on that happy day for the last time ! 

One other thing in my dream, I must not forget. I 
asked if it was possible to sell the hours of sickness and 
sorrow : " Surely," said I, " they are burdensome enougli." 
" They are so," was the reply, " but none can part Avith 
them. There is enough to do — to bear them with ^:>«- 
tience, and indeed they seldom last long enough to teach 
that lesson. It is only the hours which you would sj^end 
in yawning, in indolent vacuity, that it is permitted thus to 
barter away. Men will not jiart with their hours of plea- 
sure — they think them too precious for that ; and with 
their hours of suffering, they cannot ; for Providence justly 
deems these more precious still. But people often make 
mistakes, and come to offer what they cannot part with, 
or to get rid of it under pretences." At this very moment 
there entered an old fellow, about sixty, Avith a curious 
twist on his countenance as though he were vainly trying 
to contort an ex^^ression of acute pain into a yawn oi ennui. 
But just as he was saying that he had a fortnight of com- 
plete leisure to dispose of, a sharp twinge effectually 
banished his assumed expression of apathy, and extorted 
an exclamation by far too lively for ennui. " You, my 
friend," said the official at the counter, "have got quite 
enough to do for the j^resent — you are in no condition to 
sell ; — let me rather recommend you to buy an additional 
day or two that you may con the lessons of fortitude and 
patience a little more effectually." The sexagenarian de- 
clined this j^roposal. Would not you and I do the same ? 

Yours ever 

K. E. H. G. 



THOUGHTS OX EMIGRATION. • 261 



LETTER LIX. 

TO ALFRED WEST, ESQ. 

London, Friday, Jan. 4, 1850. 

My dear Feiend, 

I have just had a mournful parting. The whole family 

of T W have gone to Australia. I saw them on 

board at Gravesend, and went a few miles down the river 
with them. 

" England, with all thy faults," — but I think I have seen 
that quoted once, if not twice, before. Never mind ; the 
sentiment will be ever young and fresh in our hearts, how- 
ever hackneyed the j)oet's line; just as there are some 
strains of music which not all the vilest street hurdygurdies 
in the Avorld can make you hate, though you feel impatient 
enough with the poor vagabonds that so desecrate them. 

Not but what imagination is sometimes beaten, and the 
sentimental fairly yields to the ludicrous ; as when I heard 
a great raw-boned Scotchman, six feet high, bagpiping the 
other day to " I 'd be a buttei-fly." It was impossible for 
even Ovid to imagine such a metamorphosis. If it had 
been " I 'd be a kangaroo," or " a long-tailed monkey," or 
any other forest beauty of that kind, it would have been 
natural. But to return. 

I did not envy the emigrants, and can scarcely imagine 
the stress of circumstances which would reconcile tne to 
such a step. Yet they are happy in one point ; they sail 
en masse. The whole family is uprooted, and gone to make 
another home at the Antipodes. They leave no near rela- 
tions behind them. Father, mother, brothers, sisters, every- 
thing they held dear down to their favorite dog, all are 
gone ; — all but the two loved ones that they leave alone 



2G2 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

in the old familiar churcliyarcl ! Ah . how often, I will an- 
swer for it, — how often already has the mother visited, in 
fancy, that lone spot, and heard the whisper of the tall dark 
trees Avhich edge its border and the rustling of the grass 
over the graves, even above the long swell of the Atlantic ! 

I was with the voyagers in imagination almost all last 
evening, and entered so deeply into sympathy with them, 
that when I slept I was still dreaming that I was on board. 

I know not how I could bear the trial, since (I am half 
ashamed to say it) the very thought of it dissolved me in 
tears. Even if one is not about to quit one's country for 
ever, there is something profoundly melancholy in all the 
sights and sounds which surround one when parting on a 
distant voyage. As the sun goes down behind the fading 
hills, and the solemn stars come out to watch, and the mel- 
anclioly surge keej^s up its monotonous music, and the land 
breeze, with its faint smell of earth and flowers, wafts to us 
the last breath of home, — what a pensive hour is that ! 
How eagerly does the eye watch the still twinkling lights 
on the shore, and the melancholy pencil of radiance from 
the lighthouse which streams fainter and fainter as the 
waves bear us on ; how eagerly does the ear catch the 
sound even of a watch-dog on the hills ! What, then, must 
be the feelings of those who thus gaze and listen for the last 
time ; — as they lose the last twinkling lights, and drink in 
the last dying fragrance of their native fields ! What a 
pang must they feel as vivid memory recalls the home of 
childhood, and the altars where their fathers worshipped ! 
Methinks many a mother must feel a pang almost as of re- 
morse and cruelty in leaving, in un visited solitude, the ashes 
of those they have loved and lost. 

" Pooh ! " I fancy I hear you say, with your abominable 
practical sense. " I dare say these worthy folks were too busy 



THOUGHTS ON EMIGRATION. 263 

Tvdth pressing cares to suffer half as much as you fancy. 
Very likely they were all sea-sick ; and who was ever trou- 
bled with sentimental sorrows then ? " 

Why, no ; I suppose that would be a ready cure. Though 
I never felt it, I imagine, from what I have heard people 
say, that a man- enduring that misery, would not care if his 
whole generation were hanged. However, the tranquillity 

of the night allowed poor W and his family no such 

questionable antidote of sorrow. Neither do I wish them 
so ill as to hope that they escaped the pangs of parting •. 
not to have felt them would argue them brutal, and such 
sorrows have a tendency " to make the heart better," and 
soothe us while they lacerate. 

And they will, at best, be j^assing shadows. In a few 
days — ay, in a few hours — the changing scenes, the novel 
sights, and sounds, and employments; — the returning 
morning light, and the more cheerful asj^ect of the ocean 
under its beams, — above all, the obliteration of the last 
\dsible traces of home ; even the necessities of the body, — 
nay, by Ceres ! the vulgar thoughts of breakfast and the 
savory steams from the caboose ; well, well, — it is strange,^ 
but time. Man, that weeping, sighing, sorrowing, eating, 
drinking, laughing thing, — is a curious phenomenon; 
" that's a feet." In one little hour he shall shift his domi- 
cile from the head to the heart, and from the heart to the 
stomach, pass through all changes from agony and tears to 
smiles and mirth, and yet in all may be perfectly sincere. 

NY and his wife afford a noble j^roof of what a father's 

and a mother's love can do. They forswear civilization — 
for the sake of their young ones. They have looked the 
thing fairly and bravely in the face — and jDrefer hardships 
abroad, with rude i^lenty for their children, to straits and 
precarious prospects at home. They have therefore gath- 
ered up their little all, and propose to turn farmers on the 



2G4 THE GliEYSON LETTERS. 

edge of the wilderness. They voluntarily descend to quasi- 
barbarism, that their young brood may flourish. They are 
wise in this, — that they go in time. Their children are 
too young to feel the change much ; they will not have 
many habits to unlearn, and will scarcely know that their 
adopted, is not their native country. A more miserable 
spectacle can hardly be imagined than a grown uj) emigrant 
family, born to better j^rospects, resorting to such a life - — 
the sons embarrassed with a " polite " education, and the 
daughters with the usual quota of accomplishments ; both 
the one and the other bemg of about as much use in such 
a situation as silk stockings and cambric shirts. A father, 
a mother, may be capable of submitting without a murmur 
to the sacrifices enforced by such a change, rather than see 
their children starve. But where else can we find the hero- 
ism or the patience necessary to face it ? 

Ever yours, 

E. E. II. G. 



LETTER LX. 

TO THE KEV. J S , MISSION AEY IN INDIA. 

March, 1850. 

My DEAR Sm, 

Thank you very heartily for the gift of the version of the 
New Testament in the " Pushtoo or Affghan " language. 
I look on it with great reverence, though, when I open it, 
I am not quite sure Avhether or not I am looking at it up- 
side down ! But it will, I hope, speak to others, though it 
is dumb to me ; at all events it is a cu7'iositi/, as we say. 
What an uncouth -looking character it is ! 

Though I can no more make use of the volume than a 
monkey of a watch, I can honor the faith and patience of 



TO A MISSIONARY IN INDIA. 265 

those who for so many years, amidst the neglect or con- 
tempt of the world, have been silently employed in master- 
ing the Babel of this world's dialects, for the j^urpose of 
making the Bible the present jjolyglot of one hundred and 
fifty tongues ! But courage ; this task is in a great mea- 
sure accomplished ; and it was one of the most arduous 
and essential of all. It has been a long work, and it will 
be yet many years before it is perfectly accomj^lished. 

This and all other labors of you and your devoted broth- 
erhood, have been but the preparation for the great battle 
between the gospel and heathenism ; it has been the scaf- 
folding for the building. But, if I mistake not, things will 
proceed henceforth at a greatly accelerated pace. Not 
that the results, even now, are such as to disappoint any 
reasonable expectation, as one decisive fact fully shows. I 
see by the recent Reports of all our great missionary organ- 
izations, that a very apj^reciable j^ortion of the funds — in 
one as much as a fifth — has come from the missionary com- 
munities themselves ; From Polynesians, Hottentots, Hin- 
doos, and Caffres ! This fact is most significant, and speaks 
for itself in lano-uao-e which cannot be mistaken : for men 
will give their words for nothing, but when they give their 
money, they are infallibly in earnest. When, in addition 
to such fiicts as these, I consider that the word of God is 
in almost every dialect of man ; that the world no longer 
frowns on your enterprise, but condescends to take an in- 
terest in it; that the most j^owerful governments, but 
especially our own, are no longer hostile, but favorable ; 
when I consider, further, that God seems giving such an 
immeasurable superiority in powcF, wealth, science, and 
art to the community of Christian nations as cannot but 
insure them the moral mastery of the world, — an indirect, 
but most momentous advantage, as you justly say, it is im- 
possible not to anticipate a bright futurity for you. 

23 



266 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

One of the most hopeful symptoms is the attempt you 
and other missionaries are making to qualify native converts 
to be teachers of their countrymen. I wonder that it 
should not have been made from the very first. This was 
the primitive, and is the only rational method of evange- 
lization. Till this be adopted, not only must missionary 
operations be most expensive, and lavish of life, — for the 
agents must be supported at a great distance and exposed 
to unfriendly climates ; — but, for both reasons, the number 
of such agents will be utterly inadequate. And, at best, 
tlie agents themselves must ahvays work at an immense 
disadvantage as compared with native teachers. It is not 
in human nature to listen attentiA^ely to truth from lips that 
utter it in stammering accents ; and it must be years before 
the missionary can speak his adoj^ted language with fluency 
and accuracy. I sometimes imagine to myself the uncon- 
scious blunders, — no doubt often ludicrous enough, — nay, 
the downright though most innocent errors, heresies, and 
blasphemies, which have flillen from the missionary's lips 
in his early eftbrts. I am afraid the Gospel, if loe were 
heathens, Avould stand but a poor chance of being listened 
to with attention if a foreigner came to preach it to us in 
broken English, with a foreign pronunciation and a foreign 
idiom • if one told us, with the Frenchman, " Dat de evan- 
gile was ^'ome from heaven to be a book of revelation of 
the will Divine, and to cause to repent a man of all his 
sins ; " or with the German, " Dat it vos a melancholy 
ever-by-man-to-be-remembered fact dat we vos all but cu- 
cumbers of de groimd ! " 

Come now, confess -the truth. Do you not fancy that 
many a young Christian missionary, with more zeal than 
knowledge, has thus acquired without inspiration, a gift of 
speaking unlcnoion tongues ? 

The immense advantage of tne native teacher is that he 



TO A MISSIONARY IN INDIA. 267 

has no sucb difficulties ; and if a true convert, and intelli- 
gently convinced of the essential truths of Christianity, he 
would in all probability more than make amends for his 
partial ignorance by his possession of the vehicle of com- 
munication. Of course there is a period during which a 
missionary colony, like other colonies, must be supported 
by the " mother country ; " but it is my sincere belief that 
in many cases, the system of nursing has been continued 
too long. In many fields of missionary enterprise, if we 
may trust Reports (and as to some of the Polynesian islands 
we know it is so,) the converts have been very numerous 
for many years. Surely the object of the missionaries should 
have been to train some of them to teach the Gospel they 
had received — to dismiss them to their work — to leave 
just a sufficient staff of missionaries to aid in training other 
converts, and then at once to break new ground. This, at 
all events, was the Apostolic method. To supply the 
Christian colonies, which consist of these converts, with 
teachers from the other side of the world for thirty or 
forty years together, seems to me as needless as it is inex- 
pedient ; likely to keep them always cripples, and to rob 
still untaught heathen of the benevolence to which these 
last have equal claims. I am rejoiced therefore to find that 
you are training, at once, the first converts on whom you 
can depend for sincerity and sense, to the work of teaching 
their countrymen ; and, in short, that you are resolved to be, 
m a modest way, the head of a College as well as a minister 
of the Gospel. I heartily wish all our great societies would 
set up a college for this purpose m every considerable field 
of enterprise. 

Well, go on and prosper ; it is a noble career in which 
you are engaged : and so it ought to be, when I reflect on 
the ties it rends asunder, and the sacrifices it involves. 
Ah ! my friend, I shall never see you more in this world ; 



268 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

and as I think of the clays never to return — of the walks 
and talks of our early years — tears involuntarily fill my eyes. 
How strange it seems that the besotted world was so long 
in seeing that no man would choose such things as a Mis- 
sionary encounters, and that such sacrifices as yours are at 
least entitled to grateful and reverent mention, even if 
judged to be the effect of an erring enthusiasm. 

Ever yours, 

K. E. H. G. 



LETTER LXI. 

TO ALFEED WEST, ESQ. 

Great Barr, Tlmrsday, April 4, 18-[;0. 
My dear Friend, 

I have looked into the bulky volumes you were so oblig- 
ing as to send me — for my amusement, as you fxcetiously 
say ! I would as soon eat sawdust as read them. Even if 
it were not a dishonest book, a vain j^arade of erudition ; 
if the author's learning were as profuse as he would have 
his quotations imply, its perusal would still be intolerable 
to a man of sense. Here are two huge volumes of more 
than five hundred pages each, and nearly half those images 
contain only some ten lines of text, the rest made up of 
closely printed notes in double columns, bristling with cita- 
tions and references ! Each page reminds me of Ichabod 
Crane, with his diminutive head resting on a pair of stilt- 
like shanks. I calculate there are at least five thousand 
references which purport to be the result of independent 
investigation. Now in looking at a few pages only, I see 
a great many that must have been merely copied from pre- 
vious w^riters ; many others that really are nothing to the 
purpose, and many more which remit us to authors so inac- 



ON A PEDANTIC AUTHOR 269 

cessible, obscure or worthless, that they could only have 
been introduced for ostentation's sake, or because the 
author was sure they would never be hunted up. But it 
was enough that they would appear to have weight though 
they had none, or at least evince the author's learning, 
when they really show nothing but his pedantic vanity. 
Those authors who have a simple desire to establish their 
point, never needlessly accumulate citations or references. 
When the thesis is such that authority is essential, or auxil- 
iary to it, they will, even then, content themselves with the 
tninhnmn of citations that will answer the purpose. They 
reckon them by weight, not by number, — by the scales, not 
by the bushel. Indeed Avhen one has cited two or three 
names, which so far as authority can effect any thing at 
all, are instar omniiim^ of what use is it to appeal to a 
score or more of mediocrities ? If we can cite Aristotle 
why go to Keckermannus — if Bacon, how shall we further 
confirm the statement by appeal to Kettwigious? Not 
only is a large part of the citations in these volumes mei-e 
stuffing ; we cannot but feel assured that a great number 
are simply pillaged from previous writers. It must be so, 
if we consider what is implied in their being honestly quoted. 
Those authors who know their proper business, know that 
to hunt up a passage, to determine its real relevance, to 
read for the purpose what goes before^ and what comes 
after (and not, as many have done, take, by mere haste, an 
objection the cited author is just going to refute, for his 
own opinion and a sanction of ours !) requires time ; to 
transcribe the passage or the reference, to verify it j^roperly 
in the proof, and see that it is still accurate in the last 
revise, requires more ; so that we are sure the task which 
so many learned pedants, in such books as you have sent 
me, would pretend they had honestly performed, is a task 
only for a Methuselah. For tliis reason, as well as for the 

9 p. * 



270 THE GRKYSOX LETTERS. 

Others already mentioned, an honest author will be as par- 
simonious of his references and citations as possible — not 
as profuse. 

Thousands of such books as this, have the pedants among 
our German neighbors produced ; amongst us they are 
hapi)ily rare. The folly of ostentatious learning has indeed 
its day at some period or other, in the development of 
every national literature ; it had in ours two hundred years 
ago. But I think it is not likely to revive : at least it is to 
be hoped so. 

For M'hat at the best is the use of such books ? They are 
not read : how can they be ? Their only effect is to pro- 
duce in a sciolist here and there an impression that the 
autlior of a mere farrago is a very learned man ; and per- 
haps, where the subject is one of controvei'sy, an impression 
that the cause he advocates is impregnably fortified. It is 
so, as far as such books can fortify it ; for who can confute 
what nobody will read ? 

As to reading them it is out of the question. "What can 
your progress (every clause cut into two by references) be 
compared to except bump, — bump, — bumping, in a rough 
cart, over the frozen furrows of a ploughed field ? What 
mortal patience is equal to the task of reading page after 
page constructed on the model of such sentences as this, if 
I may venture to imitate the inimitable : 

" It is surely a mystery {JamUich. de Mysteriis : Gr. et 
Lat. Ed. Th. Gcde. Oxon. 1678, passim) that you should 
give to a friend {Plat: Phileb : 13 c. ; Thecetet. 143 b. 
JEd. G. Stallbauni ; Arlstot. Ethic. JSficoon. lib. viii. Cap. 1 
— 13 Ed. Im. JBekker ; or indeed even to an acquaintance 
{CiceroJiis de Amicitid. pp. 1 — 4:% Ed. Joh. Giddens- 
chaff ; Theophrast. frag, -n-epl <^tA.tas) a book that is incom- 
prehensible (dKaraXryTrrov, ^;zWe Philonis de Somn. pp. 360 
— 369; Prodi in Theologiam Plat : Yih.w. ptassim ;) even 



TO A FRIEND IN NEW ZEALAND. 271 

in its elements, (o-roixeta); the perusal of which, {vide Fac- 
ciolati in voc. perUgere) : must involve pure waste of time 
(Kettwigii de Usu Temporis^ vol. x. fol. p. 1 — 1098 : Test. 
Vet. et. JVov. passim) and make us angry (vide Schelhorn 
in Ammnitat. Litt. torn. ii. pp. 1 — 532) rather than pleased 
with the lender." 

Pray, my dear friend, study this last sentence, carefully 
looking up all the references and ascertaining their rele- 
vance ; and remember in your next loan of books that life 
is but short ; and that as of the writing of many books, so 
sometimes of the reading even of one., ''there is no end." 

Yours truly, 

E. E. H. G 



LETTER LXII. 

TO MRS. L. B., IN NEW ZEALAND. 

London, Jan. 1851 
My dear Louise, 

I was amazed by the unusual length of your last letter re- 
ceived last week, crossed, absolutely crossed, — a thing, I 
think, in these penny-post days, I have hardly seen these 
ten years. I dare say it may be discovered in the letters 
of lovers, possibly also (as in our case) between very dear 
friends who chatter to each other across the equinoctial 
line, or endeavor to keep their love from starving by a 
yearly letter, like the " Friends' Annual Ej^istle," between 
the St. Lawrence and the Cape of Good Hope, or " Auld 
Reekie " and Canton. 

Many thanks to you for it. I assure you I accept it as a 
greater proof of affection than if you had sent the choicest 
curiosities of your adopted country. It pleased me better 
than a genuine war-club, wielded by the redoubtable ai*m of 



272 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

Waliitabahaoo, (wliicli jneans, my dear, " the Son of a Gun,'- 
as you may see by consulting any of the native lexicons ;) 
or a sheaf of arrows tipped with fish-bone ; or a pickled 
head of some renowned captive, which the New Zealand gen- 
try had preserved as a trophy ; or a grotesque plumed head- 
dress by which some diabolical-looking war-chief vainly tried 
to add to the horrors of his visage, furrowed with the tattoo 
and the deeper signature of demoniacal passions. Nay, I 
value your handwriting even more than if you had sent 
(what I rather aifect than any such grim souve7iirs) a j^ot 
or two of the most tempting preserved fruits, or a barrel of 
the finest New Zealand pippins. Yet, if your afiection, my 
dear Louise, so seeks to express itself, pray do not balk it. 
The language of symbols is always expressive ; and if the 
language of flowers be edifying, what must that of fruits 
be ? If a Persian lady, instead of greeting her lover with 
roses and lilies, were to manoeuvre with dates and guavas, 
how much deeper the impression she would make on her in- 
amorato. — Your letter, notwithstanding all its intersec- 
tions, and, forgive me, my dear, its occasional meanderings 
and waving deflections from absolute parallelism, Avas all 
duly read ; though I deny not that some parts required 
careful and frequent adjustment of my spectacles. I despair 
of emulating your copiousness, but I am sure I return your 
afl*ection. 

The truth is, the mere toil of writing is becoming increas- 
ingly burdensome, and therefore odious to me, every day. 
I sometimes wish that all the world wrote and read short- 
hand. It would be at least a prodigious saving of time and 
labor. And why, by the way, should it not be a univer- 
sal accomj^lishment ? Nay, I believe it will, some day. It 
were easy to superadd this little trifle to the dozen other 
things, which children, with that wonderful plasticity and 
activity of the imitative fixculties Avliich God, for wisest pur- 



TO A FRIEND IN NEW ZEALAND. 273 

poses, has given to their age, so easily acquire. It is really 
nothing compared with learning to walk, or to talk, or to 
read (since that art, once learned, is itself auxiliary to learn- 
ing short-hand), or to play on the piano. An intelligent 
child of eight would master its chief difficulties in twenty 
lessons, and at that age, would have time to become skilled 
in the art of reading it, — which, by the way, is to adults 
the chief difficulty. Nay, ordinary lesson books might soon 
be printed in it. 

What an economy of time, patience, paper, and ink, the 
revolution Avould effect ! Methinks I see the results. What 
sweet little hillet-doux which no dove need be employed to 
carry, but which might be wafted on the wing of a butter- 
fly! What delicious little note-paj^er should we see, 160mo, 
and envelopes of the size of a peascod ! Farewell ail lum- 
bering books and huge collections ; we should literally have 
" pocket libraries ; " a gentleman might carry half the plays 
of Shakspeare in one waistcoat pocket, and all Milton in 
the other ; while a whole Bodleian almost would go into his 
great-coat. Your good husband might have put the huge 
Encyclopaedia, about which he Avas so terribly anxious, into 
his portmanteau. Prithee set about learning and reading it 
without delay. 

To be sure we must expect, should this great revolution 
be effected, to hear something about " vested rights," as in 
all such cases ; of printers and paper makers perishing of 
starvation, just as the old stage-coachmen Avere to do when 
railroads were opened ! Petitions wdll perhaps be presented 
for the taxing of all short-hand books. If any such tax 
be imposed, let us hope that it Avill be in the ratio of their 
cubical contents ; in that case the impost will not be ruin- 
ous. 

Shall we have the penny ocean-postage? I think we can 
scarcely expect it ; nor as a financial measure would it be 



274 THE GREYSON LETTERS, 

wise. Twopence or threepence, however, would do well, 
and that is surely little enough to pay for sending a missive 
to the Antipodes. I have not the shadow of a doubt that 
such a rate as that would pay its expenses, and, after a time, 
even yield a fair revenue ; for we are but at the beginning 
of the immense intercourse which will soon bring all islands 
and continents into close neighborhood; everybody will 
soon have friends and relatives everywhere, and the facili- 
ties of communication will jog memory. In a little lime, 
more thoughts will be exchanged, more love breathed fi'om 
one end of the earth to the other in a month, than formerly 
travelled between London and Edinburgh in a whole cen- 
tury. It is no doubt sweet thus to converse, but I still 
hanker for an improvement. I long for an occasional peep 
at you by an " Electric-Telegraph Trip-train," and above 
all, I want the Electric Telegraph itself to the other world, 
and have a message now and then from those dear ones w^e 
have loved and lost. Oh ! what a luxury would that be. 
But it cannot be. I can talk to you on the other side of 
the equator, but from that dread land of silence, divided 
only by the " narrow stream of death," on the frontiers of 
w^hich we ever stand, and into which we may any moment 
glide, we can hear no tidings, and can send none thither. 
You see the old wound still rankles. 

And yet I am both presumptuous and ungrateful in talk- 
ing thus. I am presutnptuoiis in saying " I can talk to you 
at the Antipodes; " for at this very moment, my heart whis- 
pers that you (and the thought chills as I write it) may al- 
ready have passed into the Avorld of shadows, or /may be 
a shadow before you read this ; and I am ungrateful^ for if 
our hearts are where they ought to be, a.nd where our pro- 
fessed " treasure " is, there will be no lack of sympathy and 
communion between us and heaven ; if we cannot hold in- 
tercourse with departed friends, we can with Ilim " in whom 



TO A FRIEND IN NEW ZEALAND. 275 

tliey abide," and who will not forget either them or us, as 
long as we forget not Him. And when we can truly feel 
thus, we need no celestial " telegraph " any longer ; at least 
I can truly say, and nothing can wrest this experience from 
me, that quicker than steam, than light, than electricity — 
even as quick as thought^ God is present with us when, in 
the full repose of a child's love and faith, we desire to be 
present with Him. 

Thus may you and I, dear Louise, often hold intercourse 
with Him, and through Him, with one another ; thus may 
we often see the patriarch's vision, " of angels ascending and 
descending," busy in the ministries of love to us in this the 
land of our pilgrimage ; and, at last, when we go hence to 
the world beyond, may we see those " shining ones " who 
have preceded us thither, coming down to the margin of the 
" dark river " to welcome us with harp and song, as in the 
immortal allegory of old John Bunyan. And now for a 
little family gossip before I close. 

.... Your old friend, Matilda M , is about to be mar- 
ried. After living so many years, Avithout doing any exe- 
cution in the world, it is odd that she should thus transfix 
a heart at the age of forty-two. Yet I find I have been 
guilty of two impro2:)rieties in a breath ; for how do I know 
but she may have, in her desk, half a dozen tributes from 
admiring swains twenty years ago ; and, in truth, if she at- 
tracted none in her bloom, I am sure Cupid must be (as he 
is represented) blind ; for, I fancy, few women could have 
been more agreeable, and if never handsome, she must have 
had pleasing features. You will doubtless tliink it a yet 
more deadly sin against courtesy, that I should talk thus at 
random about a lady's age. But, indeed, my dear, I still 
spoke discreetly ; I said forty-two, and I judged so Uj lady's 
measure ; for, to my certain knowledge, she was forty-five, 
more than a year ago, according to the reckonimr of man's 



276 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

more fleeting years. But ladies' measure of time is by a 
wand which is truly an enchanter's wand. A year is a va- 
riable quantity, and increases as they advance. Up to 
twenty-five I do not observe any difference between a lady's 
year and a gentleman's. It is a just annual revolution of 
the sun from the first point of Aries to the same again, 
neither more nor less. From twenty-five to thirty, it is, as 
near as I can guess, about a year and a-half, as w^e men 
count years ; from thirty to forty the dear creatures seldom 
advance a year under three of ours ; and from forty to five 
and forty, they have a natal day about once in every five 
years ; after that time, each year is an immense lapse of du- 
ration, and, in point of fact, I suppose that there are very 
few ladies that ever do get beyond fifty. Dej^end upon it, 
that Methuselah's wdfe was but fifty when he was in his nine 
hundredth year ! 

Nay, I have known cases, where ladies, like the planets, 
have not only had their stationary points, but their retro- 
gradations ; they have to all appearance travelled back 
from five and thirty to thirty, and then started forward 
again. 

Ask your friend Mrs. Dawson, who went out to New 
Zealand at nineteen, and who ought now, therefore, to be 
just thirty-eight. Rely on it, you will find that she is but 
twenty-nine or thirty at most ; and if she appears older, it 
is all the climate, my dear — that horrid climate 

With kindest regards to your husband. 

Ever yours affectionately, 

K. E. II. G. 



ESSENTIALS OF FRIENDSHIP. 277 

LETTER LXIII. 

to alfeed west, esq. 

My dear Friend, 

I thank you for your note, introducing Mr. L ; for 

it is always pleasant to hear from you, though in the 
present case I should have been better pleased had the 
letter come by her Majesty's servant in the red coat. 

I assure you that, for your sake, I did my best to do 
the civil thing by your friend, and, I hope, not unsuccess- 
fully. But, in short, we did not take ; you take me. By 
the way, there is a double idiom for a despairing foreigner 
to gape at ! 

You will say, perhaps, it might be owing to an inop- 
portune hour for his visit, or some other casual circum- 
stance. Perhaps so, in part. He did happen to drop in 
when I was very busy ; and, what is worse, he stayed an 
hour and a half, which I could ill spare. We talked for 
some time on the proverbial platitudes which form the 
usual introductions among Englishmen, — the weather — 
the prospects of the harvest — the public health, and half 
a dozen other topics, which, though very important, no 
one cares a doit about, and which do not tend to make 
our comj^any less irksome ; and then, when we got to 
others, your friend seemed to me a little crotchety^ and of 
the two, — crotchets or platitudes, — you know I de- 
cidedly prefer the latter, dreadful as I admit the dilemma 
to be. Something then, I allow, may be due to all this ; 
but not alL Your friend is a decided gentleman, affable, 
intelligent; but if you ask me further, why, — especially 
as backed by so potent an introduction, — I did not take 
to him more warmly, I can make you no other answer 

24 



278 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

tlian Je ne sais pas ; or quote those old lines of our school 
days which seein to me to contain a good deal of latent 
philosoj^hy : — 

" I do not like you, Dr. Fell, 
The reason wliy, I cannot tell ; 
But this I know, and know fuU well, 
I do not like you, Dr. Fell." 

" Stuff! prejudice ! " methinks I hear you say ; " and so 
you permit your heart to harbor unkind thoughts towards 
a stranger, on account of such silly prepossessions as 
these ! " Stop a minute, Mr. Lecturer. Who said a word 
of unkindness, or even of prejudice, if that is to imply any 
degree of ill-will? Can you not imagine such a thing as 
a purely intellectual antipathy? a want of some corres- 
i:>ondencies of taste, of sentiments, of association, which 
shall render intimacy as impossible as though the parties 
spoke different languages ? N^ay, more so, for minds may 
be congenial — the eyes and features may show it, actions 
may confirm it, when the tongue cannot. Cannot you, I 
say, imagine all this ? can you not imagine that two men 
may respect each other very much, and yet wish one 
another at Jericho? I am sure I can; nay, I am con- 
scious of sometimes feeling it. There is your friend, 
now. I would as soon do him a kind turn, if I had it in 
my power, as any one else of my species, (not reckoning, 
of course, my intimate friends,) but if we two were the 
only inhabitants in the world, I should wish — except 
when we might be of substantial use to one another — 
that we might see as little of each other as possible; 
showing ourselves once a month, say, on the opposite sides 
of a broad river, or two opposite mountain-peaks, and 
making each other a profound salaam, by aid of a tele- 



ESSENTIALS OF FRIENDSHIP. 279 

scope, in token of our continued existence, respect, and 
good will. 

There are cases where all genial intercourse, and so all 
the essential pre-requisites of friendship, are out of the 
question ; and this even where you believe another, in 
whom you find them not, much better than yourself; nay, 
Aviiom it would require but a very little mending and 
darning of a few holes in their humanity to clotlie in a 
suit which a decent sort of angels might not be absolutely 
ashamed of. 

Friendship, my friend, is as some one has said, — or if 
he has not said, I will say it for him ; — no, now I think of 
it, I believe it was said of Matrimony (which, by the way, 
is friendship, plus a circumstance or two) — friendship, I 
say, is like a plum pudding, a conglomerate of a highly 
complex and artificial character. Benevolence, indeed, 
must be its basis, like plums in the pudding; but there 
may be benevolence without friendship, though there 
cannot be friendship without benevolence (see Aristotle's 
Ethics, Cicero de Amicitia, and, in short, every other 
moralist, which I think about as useM a reference as 
many that the learned are in the habit of giving), and so, 
in addition to these plums, there are a score of other 
ingredients to be mingled in due proportion; to say 
nothing of a very long concoction, and even the pudding' 
hag of proximity, or at least oft-renewed presence (see 
Aristotle again, and 7iot all authors this time, for the 
remark is original), without which friendship becomes a 
very wishy-washy thing; — like that plum-soup which a 
Turkish ambassador, ambitious of giving his English 
guests an English dish, presented in a tureen ; in Avhich 
indeed all the ingredients of a plum-pudding — or rather 
the disbanded " molecules " of one — were floating, and in 
exact proportions too. The ambassador had unhappily 



280 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

forgotten in his orders to the cook the insignificant, but 
indispensable bag. 

However, the presence of many ingredients, though they 
are not all equally essential, is necessary for the j)udding; 
and it is even so also with friendshij^ ; and I maintain that 
there may be, and often is, an innate antipathy of mind, 
sentiment or taste, without any ill-will or prejudice in the 
world, which makes it imj^ossible that two men should 
ever be friends ; no, not even by the most prolonged 
concoction — or the very best pudding-bags in existence. 

Well, well, you say, it will be different in heaven, at all 
events. There, all intellectual as well as all moral an- 
tipathies will be done away with, and everybody will be 
everybody's friend. " I am no sae sure o' that," as that 
deaf old Scotchman said, who was so fond of disputation 
that he used to launch this formula of obstinacy, if he only 
saw any one of the company making a strong affirmation, 
and whether he heard it or not. That nobody Avill be 
anybody's enemy in heaven, I grant ; that " love un - 
feigned," true benevolence (glorious world!) will be con- 
stant and universal, I have no manner of doubt; — that 
there will also be all the amenities of social life, — such 
tvwQ 2')oUtesse that even a Frenchman shall acknowledge, 
without any hypocrisy of compliment, that the inhabitants 
of heaven are "les gentilshommes les plus polls dans tout 
le monde," — not excepting even Paris, — all this I be- 
lieve ; but whether there will not be the same intellectual 
sympathies necessary for the formation of close friendships, 
I have my doubts ; — in other words, I doubt whether the 
manufacture of moral plum-puddings may not go on in that 
world as well as this, and whether, while plums shall be 
still the basis, concoction and pudding-bags may not be 
needed just as much as now. I don't know how it may 
be with you, but I can fancy a man saying even in heaven : 



ESSENTIALS OF FRIENDSHIP. 281 

"Do you know angel So and So? He is really a most 
worthy, excellent, estimable angel, but somehow we can't 
get on well together ; he is a fine tall creature ; of a noble 
presence ; has beautiful wings ; flies well ; but, to speak 
the truth, he is a shade too musical for me ; is too fond of 
his singing; will sing you through the 119th Psalm with- 
out stopping, and then begin again; or — he is a little too 
light and airy, will come flying through my oj^en window 
when I would rather be alone, or alight, like some swallow 
in our old world, upon my roof, and twitter and chirp 
there, of course most divinely, for the hour together ; or — 
he is a thought too j^rosy, and bores me a little with 
philosophy ; or — he is too knowing, and has been here 
too long to enable me to understand him fully; he is 
always recurring to that little tour he made of the uni- 
verse fifty thousand years ago; or — he is too much of a 
virtuoso for my taste, and is full of that inimitable collec- 
tion of cockleshells, flies, and the sixty thousand species of 
amaranth which he has gathered from two thousand dif- 
ferent worlds ; or — he is too much of a Public Angel for 
me. He is always for dragging me to great ' assemblies ' 
and ^N'ew Jerusalem 'gatherings,' when I would rather 
spend half of my time in some quiet nook of the ' ever- 
lasting hills,' and muse alone." All this I say I can 
imagine; I can imagine that even in heaven "tastes 
differ;" but the beauty of the place will be, that tastes 
shall give no offence, for no one will be offended with you 
for not sympathizing with them. Yes — will you, can 
you believe it ? — you may actually stop angel A in his 
singing, at the hundredth stanza, and he won't take any 
offence at it. You may say that you do not altogether 
sympathize with angel B's dearest friend, and he won't 
think the Avorse of you for it. Pray take the hint. 

Yes ! my dear friend ; perfect congeniality in all moral 

24* 



282 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

tastes, perfect sincerity, and j^erfect superiority to offence, 
will be heaven itself; but depend on it there will be varie- 
ties of other tastes, and therefore degrees of sympathy, and 
therefore degrees of intimacy, there as here ; and so, (which 
is not least to be prized,) I shall have the precious privi- 
lege of my solitary, but no longer morose, humors ; of 
sometimes being for whole days quite alone ; and not as 
you, with your more jovial and musical tastes, imagine, al- 
ways in a crowd, chirping, singing, twanging harp-strings, 
clapping wings, and performing celestial " sonatas." But 
I grant all will be good — whether in company or solitude — 
and that will be heaven ; it is not flat uniformity, identity 
of feeling, monotony of employment. There is truth, I 
firmly believe, in the conceptions of our great bard as to 
unexpected analogies between heaven and earth. Nay, is 
it not Raphael himself who speaks in the divine j^oem ? 
Milton is but his " Reporter." .... 



Yours truly, 



E. E. H. G. 



LETTER LXIV. 

TO THE SAME. 



July 29, 1849. 



My DEAR Friend, 

I little thought when I wrote to you last that x shoula 
so soon see the counterpart of the litigious deaf Scotch- 
man I mentioned. Surely, however possessed with the 
spirit of controversy and contradiction, he could hardly 
surpass a travelling companion I met with the other day 
on the top of a coach — there are few such now — between 
Grantham and Melton Mowbray. My positive friend broke 
in with doubt or flat contradiction, no matter what was 
said, — not exactly like the Scotchman, without hearing^ 



LOVE OF CONTRADICTION. 283 

but, what comes to much the same thing, whether lie 
understood what was said or not. What an odd humor it 
is, and yet a not unfrequent trait of character. 

On finding how egregiously this humor of opposition 
possessed him, and that nothing coukl be started but he 
threw himself into a pugiUstic attitude, I coukl not resist 
the temptation to play a little on his foible by gently giv- 
ing the conversation a curve when he had made some strong 
assertion, and so coming round to an aj^pearance of agree- 
ing with him ; no sooner done, than I immediately found 
he was quite as ready to maintain nearly the opposite of 
his former position. In short, his tongue, like the point of 
a weathercock, boldly veered round, and faced the pre- 
vailing wind, no matter what quarter it might blow from. 

It was some time before I discovered this ingenious me- 
thod of making him agree with himself and me too, and 
so relieving our journey of that annoyance which a perpet- 
ual wrangle between two people who cannot run away 
from one another must needs occasion. 

We talked of the weather (of course), of the crops (of 
course too), of the Russian interference in the affairs of 
Hungary, of the Queen's projected visit to Ireland and 
Scotland, of the cholera ; but I found that whatever I said 
I must necessarily be in the wrong. ^ 

In very weariness I thought it advisable sometimes to 
nod a seeming acquiescence in what he said ; and I almost 
think he would have quarrelled with my 7iod^ if he could ; 
but whenever I attempted to modify his statements into 
something near what I could agree with, I was favored with 
a defen-ce (not very valid, I admit) of my own formerly 
expressed oj^inions. Among other things, I happened to 
remark that I thought it curious that after such immense 
researches, in all parts of the world and among the most 
sagacious of the medical j^rofession, into the nature and 



284 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

causes of the cliolcra, so little light had been thrown on 
the subject, lie, of course, did not think it at all strange ; 
and said (what was true enough) that the real causes of 
almost all diseases are difficult to ascertain. I admitted 
tlie justice of the remark ; and said that, perhaps, consider- 
ing tJiat<t we ought to wonder rather that medicine had 
made so much progress than that it had made no more ; he 
was disposed to douht that observation, and thought that 
" considering their long and patient researches " (just what 
I had started with in relation to a particular case !) much 
more might have been done by the unlucky doctors. 

I said that it must be very difficult to form a correct 
diagnosis of disease, considering the complex and evanes- 
cent phenomena to be observed, and remarked that the 
very representations of the patient himself might often 
mislead. I have heard, said I, laughing, physicians affirm 
that they would rather attend a baby that could not si^eak, 
than an adult — whose very absorption in his own sensa- 
tions, and his exaggeration of them, might put medical 
sagacity on a false scent ! I told him, (what was true 
enough,) that I had seen a Latin Essay, written by a young 
physician on taking his diploma, which expressly main- 
tained this paradoxical thesis. He thought at once that a 
j^hysician must be a hloclchead to say so ; for surely it must 
be of great advantage to be able to get an articulate an- 
swer to his questions — instead of listening only to inarti- 
culate cries. I admitted it, and said that doubtless, on the 
whole, a patient must be allowed to be a pretty good judge 
of his own sensations, and in general would give a tolera- 
bly accurate account of his symptoms. He was not so 
sure of that, and declared that a Avise physician should 
trust very little to his j^atient's information, and treat him 
much as if he was a child! 

Now there is a sense, no doubt, in which all these obser- 



LOVE OF CONTRADICTION. 285 

vations may be true enough under certain limitations and 
modifications. They are among the " antitheta " (as Ba- 
con would say) which will furnish rhetorical common-places 
on both sides. The drollery was to see how eagerly my 
acquaintance always took the opposite. 

Thus delightfully, my dear friend, did we go on in this 
pleasant game of conversational see-saw. I cannot give 
you any idea of the manner of Mr. Positive ; it was prompt 
and absolute — " decisive and clear, without one if or but" — 
as if his speeches had been expressly framed on this prin- 
ciple : " Whatever you say now, I will contradict it ; and if 
you agree with me, I will condradict myself! Only let me 
hear you say anything that I will not contradict ! " and ex- 
cept you had told him that he was a very wise man, in 
which case you would have told a great fib, I scarcely think 
you could have found the proposition in which he would 
have agreed with you. His very image was the Irishman, 
who, despairing of a shmdi/ at a fair, — everything threat- 
ening to end in unwelcome and unwonted tranquillity, — 
took off his coat, and trailing it in the mud, said, " And 
by St. Patrick, would'nt I like to see the boy that would 
tread on that same ! " 

I think I have met with men equally fond of contradic- 
tion, — of taking the other side, — but they in general won- 
derfally soften and disguise the humor by polite periphrases 
and delicate circumlocutions. " Pardon me, but I really 
think " — "I should agree with you entirely, but " — "I ac- 
knowledge there is a great deal of force in that observation, 
only " — "I am surprised to hear a person of your evident 

good sense ." It is astonishing how much better these 

things sound than " I do not think so " — "I am of quite 
a different opinion " ■ — " that is a mistake." But it is an 
odd humor at the best ; more odd, though scarcely more 
agreeable than an oj^posite trait of character — I mean the 



286 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

timid vacillation which defers to every opinion. These 
two sets of characters ought by rights to go always toge- 
ther, for their reciprocal annoyance, — one subjected to the 
humiliation of perpetual assent, the other to the equal 
misery of never encountering an antagonist ! 

I was reminded, in the neighborhood of Muston, of 
Crabbe. I was anxious, if it might be, to catch a glimpse, 
as we rode along, of the house he used to live in. I asked 
the coachman of his " whereabouts." He looked thought- 
fully for a moment, and then said, " Crabbe — Crabbe — I 
never heerd on him, sir : I don't know of no such person 
in these parts." " The poet " — said I, " the poet ! " He 
shook his head, and then turning to a farmer behind, said, 
" This gentleman wants to know where one Mr. Crabbe 
lives." Ye gods ! one Mr. Crabbe, as if there were a dozen ! 
The farmer was not more enlightened. Only think of it; 
Crabbe, dead not yet twenty years ; barely thirty since he 
last lived in that neighborhood; and yet, though his name 
has traversed England and America, it may be unknown, 
it seems, at his own threshold. " A prophet is not without 
honor save in his own country and his own house." 

Much the same answer I got from a worthy farmer of 
whom I inquired, in a pilgrimage many years ago to Chal- 
font St. Giles, — « Which was Milton's cottage ? " He re- 
plied that he did not know of any man of that name there- 
abouts ; but that he might live in one of the new houses a 
little further on ; some strangers had come lately ! By 
the way, I fear the little room over the porch in which the 
blind poet wrote (it is said) the "Paradise Regained," 
duriug the plague of London, exists no longer. 
Yours ever affectionately, 

K. E. H. G. 



MOUNTAINS VERSUS BOOKS. 287 



LETTER LXV. 

To C. MASON, ESQ. 

Isle of Skte, July 26, 1851. 

My dear Mason^, 

Your cousin has just arrived — out with such a load of 
packages that I hardly know how he will manage to stow 
them away in the Lilliputian apartment provided for him 
in my modest lodgings here. Three boxes, two portman- 
teaus ! — the former almost wholly filled with books ! I 
tell him I am persuaded it is nothing but ostentation, — 
the very Pharisaism of scholarship which has made him 
come ^vith such a retinue of authors at his heels ; for Avho 
ever did, would, or could study much amidst mountain 
scenery ? 

But I will be charitable withal ; for I remember well 
that, in my younger days I made similar vain provision, un- 
der like circumstances, for that intellectual appetite which 
never came, or which would only languidly toy with a page 
or two at a time, and to which a couple of Volumes, and 
twice as many pamphlets would have been a Bodleian. 
Yet have I lugged with me into the mountains scores of 
books never to be read ; — a specimen or two of my favor- 
ite poets, — three or four volumes of j^hilosophy, — only 
think of metaphysics under the shadow of Scheliallion or 
Ben Nevis! — a modest sprinkling of Greek and Latin 
Classics — a few books of history and romance, — in short, 
a well selected library in petto. The delusion is some- 
thing like that of certain provident old ladies going a voy- 
age for the first time, in the " Margate Hoy " days. What 
hampers of provender — what choice ham, veal-pie, potted- 
beef, and bottles of wine and ale ! But ah ! a roll or two 



288 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

of the vessel as she got beyond the Nore, — and how su- 
j^erfluous did all this foresight appear. 

It is much the same with our intellectual provender in 
such scenes as we have here, though the loss of appetite 
arises from a pleasanter cause. As long as the weather is 
fine, who can think of poring over his books, and after an 
excursion to distant mountain or glen, who is not too Aveary 
for it ? Yet {horresco ref evens) the books may be of service. 
I shudderingly recollect — six — ten days of continuous 
down-pour in this very Elysium, and then, what a treasure 
were a few books and a gray goose quill ! But a very few 
will do; and as to writing, — a good deal maybe scribbled 
on a couple of quires of paper. But this library of your 
cousin, why it looks, {ahslt omen !) it looks^ I say, as though 
the fellow had made up his mind that we shall have wet 
weather. However, let me hojDC that it may rather be an 
amulet against it. When you go out without an umbrella, 
the clouds, they say, are certain to take sly advantage of 
your folly, and drench you to the skin. What perpetual 
sunshine may we not expect when their malice sees that 
we are thus fortified within doors against ennui! 

He tells me that on wet days, we can read some of the 
tougher books together, — another delusion ; I fancy we 
shall hardly dip into them ; we may perhaps condescend to 
lounge through a novel or so ; but as to regular study it 
must be let alone. Two people are sure to converse rather 
than read, or read only to converse. I remember once sit- 
ting down with a very dear friend to a pamphlet which had 
just come out, on a subject in which we both felt an interest. 
Something in the very first page suggested some doubt on 
my part ; it was expressed ; the propriety of my doubt was 
doubted on his ; — the disputed point soon became, under 
the clearing effects of debate, a certainty with him, — with 
me palpably false ; and after wrangling the whole morning 



MOUNTAINS VERSUS BOOKS. 289 

in that preliminary discussion, we closed the yet uncut 
pamphlet, and rushed out into the glorious sunshine, wish- 
ing the jDamphlet, its author, and our discussion at the An- 
tij^odes. 

" What an intellectual epicure the love of the picturesque 
has made you," — I fancy I hear you say. Not a whit ; — 
but I confess I like to spend these little intervals of deli- 
cious idleness — this " honeymoon " of the Soul and Nature, 
as little i^estered by either business or literature as may be. 
So I do not intend to let your cousin study much; 
though that I fancy, will not give me much trouble, for in 
three days his books will be as much forgotten as if he had 
left them at home. As it has been rather a hazy, drizzling 
morning, however, he has been busy in unpacking and ar- 
ranging, them, and evidently thinks he has done a clever 
thing in dragging all this lumbering weight of dead men's 
brains with him. He has paid handsomely for land car- 
riage, I promise you. "Books give us no trouble," says 
Cicero, " they delight us at home and don't hinder us Avhen 
we go abroad : " — " Delectant domi, non impediunt foris, 
pernoctant nobiscum, peregrinantur, rusticantur." 

I am not so sure of that, friend Cicero. I fmcy Master 
Francis could tell a different story, and that a chest of 
books — enough to break down a luggage-train — and of 
a weight, figuratively, beyond all computation, is a very 
serious addition to a traveller's " impedimenta." 

We shall not, I think, leave this beautiful spot unless it 
be for a week's run or so across the Kyles to Glen Urquhart 
and Glen Shiel. But we squat here, as they say in Aus- 
tralia, and the term is hardly too Australian for our primi- 
tive lodgings, — the best we can procure however. I love 
to see a gem of an island like this in perfection ; and the 
only way to do so, is to locate yourself in a convenient 
place, and radiate in successive excursions, day by day, to 

25 



290 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

all the most channing points of scenery, whether of moun- 
tain, sea, glen, or stream, — surveying them all from tlieir 
best aspects in all the glorious variety of light and shadow, 
cloud and sunshine, morning or evening tints, — and soda- 
guerreotyping each scene for ever on your memory. I have 
been to Loch Coriskin, dark under the savage shadows of] 
those singularly abrupt and gloomy mountains of green 
granite ; but I hope to go often again. The spot well de- 
serves all the admiration Scott has bestowed on it, in his 
"Lord of the Isles," though his description hardly conveys 
an exact impression. O that you could join us ! But I 
suppose that is impossible. Your patients, like all other 
foolish sick people, vnll have the notion that the doctor is 
essential to them, — Avhen, I dare say, they Avould get on 
just as well without him, — not to say a great deal better ! 
However, whether they have any need oiyoii or not, I sup- 
pose you have need of them / — so I shall say no more 
about it, except that I heartily wish there might come such 
a season of public health as would allow the doctors to look 
after their own. But I forget ; that would be worse than 
all ; you would doubtless be found bemoaning the general 
health more than the Great Plague itself 

I remember hearing of a sexton and a doctor condoling 
with each other at a casual meeting in a churchyard, on 
the i^erverse salubrity of the season : " I have not dug a 
grave, sir," said the disconsolate sexton, " for these three 
week." " And I assure you, John, said the doctor, with an 
equally lugubrious face, " there has not been a ' serious 
case ' in the parish for a month i^ast." Perhaps the sexton 
thought the doctor a little to blame for their being out of 
work, and that if he had done his j^art, the one might have 
had patients, and the other a grave or two to dig. 

You will say, perhaps, at this jibe, — "A little learning 
is a dangerous thing." If so, I shall feel inclined to retort 



TO A DYSPEPTIC FRIEND. 291 

on you (but perhaps with more reason) by quoting the per- 
verse commentary of a Methodist preacher on that cele- 
brated line. " ' A little learning,' says the poet, ' is a dan- 
gerous thing.' Ah ! then, dear brethren, what must a great 
deal of it be ? " Did ever ignorance plead its cause more 

ingeniously ? 

Ever yours, 

E. E. H. G. 



LETTER LXVI. 

TO , ESQ. 

Edinburgh, Mondaj'-, Aug. 4, 1851. 
My dear Friend, 

I am grieved to hear of your dyspepsia, and I have, as 

you wished, spoken to your old physician. Dr. S . I 

heartily wish it were in his power to give you more specific 
advice than, at this distance, it is possible he should. To 
prescribe four hundred miles off (or, for that matter, four 
feet) without seeing the patient, is, in his opinion, the 
merest quackery. The only cases in which it could be jus- 
tified are those, — and I apprehend they are not infrequent, 
— where the patient has nothing the matter with him. In 
such cases, if the doctor wished to minister " to a mind dis- 
eased " by amusing it, he might, if an allopathist, send a 
prescription for colored barley-water in grotesque medical 
Latin ; or, if a homoeopathist, an infinitesimal globule ; 
though I am not quite sure that I could easily bring myself 
to practise this innocent sort of cheat on my patient, even 
to deceive him into health 

But in any serious case (and any case, truly says Dr. 

S , may become so by being treated injudiciously), this 

mode of cure, by doing nothing under a learned name, is 



292 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

out of the question. Though, therefore, it may do for a 
conjurer, a clairvoyant, or a great "Indian Medicine^^ to 
prescribe for disease at a distance, it will not do for any 
genuine son of Esculapius. A physician really sagacious, 
and prophetic by long experience, may give ever so seem- 
ingly superficial a glance at a case, — and yet may rapidly 
combine the sym2)toms and deduce a just conclusion from 
them ; but he must at all events see his j^atient. There- 
fore take your old friend's advice and, without delay, go to 
the nearest physician of repute. 

Symptoms very similar to yours, says S , may follow 

from almost any one of the many species of the many genera 
of dyspepsia, to which ingenious Nosologists vainly toil to 
reduce that Protean malady ; a malady of which, notwith- 
standing all their minute classifications, nature still presents 
them with inexhaustible varieties. And as the different 
varieties may and do require corresj^onding delicacy of 
treatment, it is obviously imj^racticable for one at a distance 
to prescribe for you. 

To a certain extent, however, both he and I are willing 
to prescribe for you ; for it requires no great skill and no 
medicine at all. Comply to the utmost of your power with 
the general conditions of health, which are equally to be 
observed by everybody, and which, when diseases can be 
cured, will generally suffice to cure them — though a wise 
physician may do much to aid the 2:)rocess. Take all the 
indications nature itself gives you, and act upon them rig- 
idly. Be regular in your hours — take plenty of air and 
exercise — do not rob yourself of the proper (p.iantmn of 
sleep (wliich I suspect you do) for business, or for any 
thing — however necessary you may deem it ; for your 
first necessity is to get well. Above all, be careful to take 
that diet which you feel by experience best agrees with 
you. One word as to that deceptive appetite — that illu- 



TO A DYSPEPTIC FRIEND. 293 

sive voracity, wliicli you say sometimes i:)lagues you. Dr. 

S says that you are not to listen to this lying oracle 

in the stomach, which often deceives a dyspeptic patient. 
— When the organ is empty, it assures him that it can and 
will deal with a full meal ; and then when full, fails to ful- 
fil its promises. This ^niscalculation^ — either from a mor- 
bid appetite, which seems at i^resent to be your case, or 
from a too voracious appetite, which is the case Avith the 
majority of mankind, — is a frequent cause, as well as symp- 
tom, of dyspepsia. We almost all eat more than can be 
fairly assimilated, and hence a chronic faihire in the tone 
of the organ habitually overAvorked. There is certainly 
something very provoking in the not uncommon case of a 
disproportion between a factitious hunger Avhich the empty 
stomach affects, and its power of performance ; because the 
clamor it sets up is a false sign-post, and misleads* As to 
those, who, while the stomach says nothing, or even grum- 
bles and resents, will overload the j^oor drudge, — they 
deserve all that they suffer. It is the old story of a per- 
verted Avill — a moment's present gratification, and a future 
costly price of torment for it. The Avheedling j^alate says, 
" another slice, or another cuj) " — and down it goes into 
the reluctant recej^tacle. Here j^ity is out of the question. 

But there is something very pitiable Avhen a poor mortal 
is the Adctim of a deceitful lure — a factitiously voracious 
appetite, — itself the result of disease, not of health. The 
true way of taming this Avolf, as sometimes other wild 
beasts, is by letting it fast. 

But Avhether the taking of food beyond what nature re- 
quires, be the effect of involuntary or voluntary depravity 
of appetite, your old Mentor and mine is of opinion that, in 
nine hundred and ninety-nine cases out of a thousand, it is 
the cause, remote or proximate, of all the infinite forms of 
tliat comprehensive disease, which lets our consciousnesf=i 

25* 



294 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

into a secret which nature intended we should be ignorant 
of — namely, " that we have stomachs." He affirms, and I 
rather think with truth, that nearly all the learned talk that 
is made about the quality of food, as wholesome or other- 
wise, difficult or easy of digestion, might be spared, if only 
people sinned not in quantity. He says, men in health 
might almost take anything that can be digested, provided 
they took it in no excess. This seems confirmed by the 
general experience of most who have plenty of vigorous 
exercise, pure air, and but little to eat. Nay, how soon 
does the pampered dweller in cities, who, perhaps, at home 
was complaining from morning to night of a queasy stomach, 
find this out in a rough tour through a country like this ! 
What a solvent is the keen mountain air — what a power 
of dealing Avith anything that comes to hand (short of 
gravel and oyster-shells) does the stomach attain ; and, if 
moderate in quantity, how little does it " keck " at the 
quality thereof! 

Let me know how you are, soon. Dr. S., I should add, 
(for the opinion of a physician one confides in, is itself one 
of the very best prescriptions,) predicts that your symp- 
toms will soon pass away. 

Yours truly, 

E. E. H. G. 



LETTER LXVII. 



Arkan, Aug. 12, 1851. 

My dear Sir, 

If I do not comply with your request so fully as you may 
wish — for I have time only for a few brief hints — it is, as 
you will be sure, from no lack of interest in your pupil. As 
the son of an old friend, his welfare will never be indifFer- 



CONSCIENCE. 295 

ent to me. But to the point. He says, " It seems it can 
never be wrong to follow conscience, let it lead to what it 
will — and to doit must always be pleasant; that, there- 
fore, even a conscientious Atheist must be blameless, and 
may be happy and safe." But suppose there is no con- 
scientious Atheist! What then? At that supposition 
he would, no doubt, be indignant. Well, then, let us 
waive it. 

J. T is Uke many other youths of his age, enamored 

of a half-truth, and, none the less that, seen in that state, it 
looks like paradox, and moreover seems to promise, what 
youth so dearly loves, a " Principle " which admits of no 
modification, no exception. His statement contains a truth 
indeed, but he must not suppose that there is anything very 
novel in his discovery. 

It is an undoubted truth, discovered long before J. 

T was born, and clearly enough laid doAvn by a host 

of moralists and casuists, — by Barrow, Jeremy Taylor, 
Stillingfleet, Chillingworth, — that " a conscience, however 
erroneous, obliges.'''' But though it is true that a man must 
follow his conscience loheii made^ the question returns, 
whether he may not have had a trifle to do with maJcing it. 
It does not follow that because a man must obey his con- 
science, he is blameless in so doing. To make him so, we 
must assume that up to the time he is called on to act in 
obedience to its authority, he has had nothing to blame in 
the process by which he has come to have such a conscience ; 
no prejudice, no indolence, no remissness in investigation, 
no disingenuousness, no momentary listening to vanity, 
waywardness, interest, or any other of the ten thousand 
warping influences which bias our judgments. Only in the 
case in which a man has impartially dealt with evidence, 
up to the full measure of his opportunities and abilities, is 
he blameless ^' and he is blamable, much or little, as he 



296 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

has, much or little, deviated from this standard. So far 
from its being true, therefore, that to follow conscience (no 
matter whither) is certainly a " safe and pleasant duty," it 
may be, and often is, the very curse of a man's past unfaith- 
fulness. In a thousand ways may man contribute to the state 
of mind in which he at last believes a lie to be the truth ; 
and in proportion as he has done so, the necessity under 
which he brings himself to follow the " blind guide " is cer- 
tainly no matter of congratulation, unless it be any such, 
" that both shall fall into the ditch." 

It is true, indeed, that however pitiable his condition, it 
is still blameless, (I fear it is an apology which will rarely 
avail,) if it was absolutely imj^ossible for the man, be it 
from the structure of his mind or his inevitable lot in life, 
to prevent the result or modify it for the better ! 

We cannot doubt, I think, that many a Thug — many a 
Mahometan fanatic — many a Romish Inquisitor — many 
millions of Idolaters — have conscientiously j^erformed acts 
which we call the most detestable crimes. Well, the errone- 
ous conscience, while they are in that state, coerces them, 
as much as a more enlightened conscience binds an apostle. 
Does it, therefore, leave them as blameless ? Are we not 
only to pardon a Dominick, but to regard him with compla- 
cency — as we must if your pupil's principle be true? Is 
it not absurd to say so ? We cannot even pardon him (as 
I have shown) unless the state of mind into which he has 
been brought is wholly and absolutely involuntary. If it 
be, pardon him we must ; but even then we shall, at most, 
pardon — and pity ; or shall we, like our young philoso- 
pher, say that a Bonner deserves admiration as much as a 
Hooper, — for both are conscientious ? 

If J. T shrinks from this, and says " no," for it cannot 

be that any man can conscientiously mistake acts, in them- 
selves inhuman and cruel, for duty, (though I fancy he has too 



CONSCIENCE. 297 

much sense, in the face of history, to affirm that,) we should, 
of course, say that this is begging the question. If he 
should say, (what, perhaps, he would say) that his apology 
for " an erroneous conscience " is not designed to apply to 
the " practical," but to the " speculative " only, — to 
" opinions " not to " actions," then the next thing must be, 
• — and a difficult task he will find it, — 1st, to state the 
limits within which the apology for an "erroneous con- 
science " does not apply, by making the requisite distinc- 
tion between " sjoeculative opinions " and their consequences, 
involved as these are, especially in all matters of a moral 
and religious nature, with one another. This complication 
all superstition too plainly proves, — for as is the belief, so, 
as a general rule, is the practice ; 2ndly, to prove that man 
is not responsible for his head as well as for his heart ; for 
his speculative opinions as well as for his practical prin- 
ciples ; that while an *' erroneous conscience " does not 
excuse him for the state of mind in which he conscien- 
tiously believes that it is his duty to roast heretics, it does 
excuse him for conscientiously holding the Pope to be 
infallible, amidst so many j^roofs to the contrary ; or that 
there is no God in the universe, amidst so many proofs that 
there is one! And yet who does not see, in these very 
instances, the impossibility of separating between specula- 
tive opinions and their practical results ; for he who holds 
the former of these tenets will naturally obey it, and, like 
many a Dominick of the Roman Church, end by roasting 
heretics, if the Pope bids him; while he who holds the 
latter will not, I think, have much difficulty in coaxing his 
conscience to any " practical principles " he pleases. 

In accordance Avitli the spurious charity which character- 
izes our day, J. T is, I perceive, most indignant with 

those who think unfavorably of anybody for conscientiously 
acting upon his opinions, be they what they may. The 



298 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

very argument is self-confuting, find the bulk of mankind 

are absolved from attending to it. For if men conscien- 

tioitsly think, as most men do (and are likely to do, I 

imagine,) that men are deeply censurable for the conditions 

of mind in which they take egregious falsehoods for truth, 

and practise abominable crimes as duty, they are excused 

for conscientious condemnation of such conscientious people, 

by the very terms of J. T 's own arguments ! We, 

surely, are not to be blamed for following co7iscience any 

more than such mad apologists for its eccentricities ! 

Such are a few hints which, if I were near you, I should 

give him. 

Yours truly, 

E. E. H. G. 



LETTER LXYIII. 

TO . 

LoNDOx, Dec. 11, 1851. 

My dear Sie, 

I cannot offer a single word of apology to your " secular " 
guest for what I said. You know he distinctly affirmed, 
in consistency with some of the " Secularist " authorities 
of our time, that he believed it was desirable to get rid of 
the conception of a presiding Deity under any possible 
modifications ! — and that the absence of any such notion 
was more favorable to human virtue and morality than its 
presence. This opinion is asserted, as in some other Athe- 
istical works (all obscure enough, to be sure,) so in a little 
one which proposes it as the " Task of To-day," to anni- 
hilate the — Deity! No doubt it will be the task of to- 
morrow also, and, I should think, the day after that. 

You will recollect that when your " secularist " acquaint- 
ance affirmed the above strange dogmas, I gave him a fair 



"SECULARISM." 299 

opportunity of retracting, by saying that if he merely meant 
that such a God as millions had worshipped, — a Belial, a 
Moloch, — an obscene and cruel Deity, — even a Yenns or 
a Bacchus, — might possibly be as bad as none, (or worse,) 
many might agree with him ; but if he meant sicch a Deity 
as implied Perfection of Wisdom, Justice, Power, and Good- 
ness, none but a liar or a madman would. lie positively 
reaffirmed, however, his opinion that, under cm^ modifica- 
tion, the idea of a God was pernicious ; that Atheism was 
better than Theism ; and particularly appealed to those 

great " authorities," M. Comte, Mr. and Miss . 

It was then I said, if you recollect, (what I still say, and am 
prepared to maintain,) that I hold myself absolved from 
arguing with any one who can affirm that the idea of a j^er- 
fectly holy, invisible, ever-present, infallible Governor (sin- 
cerely entertained), is more unfavorable to virtue than the 
notion that there is no God at all ; or that, so far as it has 
any conceivable bearmg on human conduct, it can be other 
than auxiliary to every imaginable motive to morality ; that 
I was convinced, so long as the human intellect was consti- 
tuted as it is, that the man who asserted such a paradox 
must be regarded by ninety-nine men out of every hundred 
as a liar, and that the hundredth would only shield him from 
that by supposing him onacl. 

I still hold to every syllable of that declaration. It is im- 
possible, constituted as we are, that we can believe any 
man other than a hypocrite or an idiot, who tells us that, 
if you add a motive or two motives coincident with ten 
others, to these last, the whole will be diminished in force : 
that the supposition of an unseen judge over the thoughts 
as well as actions^ and who will infallibly reward or punish 
them, in accordance with what even your "secularist" ac- 
quaintance himself believes to be true principles of human 
conduct, will be an impediment to right-doing ! Would 



300 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

it not be just as easy to believe that two and two make 
five?. . . 

I am quite ready to argue with any candid Atheist, if 
such tliere be, (of which I have my doubts,) as to whether 
there is a God or not ; I am sure he will not descend to this 
sort of knavish or idiotic paradox. If sincere, he will say, 
"AVell, if there be no such God as you have described, so 
much the worse for the world. I admit that ; one must 
confess that it is desirable there should be such an one ; but 
that does not prove that there is one." That is what I 
should call intelligent and candid ; and the argument might 
go on. 

As to what he says of my want of charity — but let the 
man say what he pleases. If he be a liar, who would, and 
if an idiot, who could, reason with him ? and that he is either 
one or the other, is beyond doubt with me. . . . 

Yours very truly, 

K. E. H. G. 



LETTER LXIX. 

to a homoeopathic feiend. 

My dear Feiend, 

I thank you for your kind inquiries after my health. I 
am happy to say that I am much better, without going to 
consult the homoeopathic doctor whom you so ardently re- 
commend. But I have, — pray do not be offended — done 
what is almost the very same thing ; that is, nothing. Dr. 
E , though not a homoeopathist, is, I believe, as well ac- 
quainted with his profession as any man in it. Finding the 
symptoms very obscure, he declined, like a wise man, pok- 
ing about in the dark, and possibly doing me more harm 
than good ; and advised me, after giving me a few simple 



TO A HOMCEOPATHIST. SOI 

directions as to diet and regimen, to put myself under all 
the natural conditions of health among the mountains. I 
did so — and voila / I have returned, I do believe, as well 
as if I had taken — if I could be ever sure I had taken — 
sundry trecillionths of a grain of that infallible specific you 
were so kind as to prescribe for me. 

Your zeal on behalf of homoeoi^athy amuses me ; but you 
quite mistake matters, when you tax me with forgetting the 
Baconian philosoj^hy. You say it does not become me to 
reject well-ascertained facts, " because they are mysterious 
and inexplicable." 

I have no objection in the world to facts, be they ever 
so mysterious and inexplicable. But I must be sure that 
they are facts on a just induction. I assure you that if I 
found, from a report of a " Joint Committee " of Allopatli- 
ists and Homoeopathists, (and it must be so constituted, else 
the two factions would have no efiectual check on each 
other's prepossessions,) that of a thousand patients laboring 
under a certain complaint, say scarlatina, 80 per cent, were 
cured under allopathy, 70 per cent, without any treatment 
at all (though I should not wonder if Dame Nature did just 
as Avell as any of the faculty), and 90 per cent, under homce- 
opathy ; and if the experiment, several times repeated, gave 
each time the same or -approximate results, I should at once 
become a homoeopathist, — all the mystery and mcompre- 
hensibility of its " facts " notwithstanding. So that you see 
I am, after all, a very consistent Baconian. But I cannot 
receive qicasi " facts " as facts, without just evidence, and 
certainly cannot take their "mysterious" character as an 
antecedent presumption of i^robability. As to the general 
'principle of homoeopathy — "Similia similibus curantur" — 
I have nothing to say about it ; I am an incompetent judge; 
as incomj^etent as yourself, who are an excellent lawyer, I be- 
lieve, but, so far as I know, as little of a physician as I am. 

26 



302 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

I must leave the faculty, therefore, to wrangle about this 
principle. But as to the minute doses, for the jjhysical effi- 
cacy of which you vouch so manfully, I have a few things to 
object. You say that it is as well ascertained a fact that the 
ten thousandth part of a grain of antimony will produce an 
appreciable effect, as that a scruple will ; or as any flict in 
the range of inductive science. I doubt it ; I can and must 
judge, principally, from my own consciousness, though not 
from that alone. I take your prescribed globule, and can- 
not find that it produces the slightest effect on me. I have 
taken, — I am willing to take any of your decillionths of 
grains, (only bargaining that I may be sure of the necessary 
dilution or trituration by performing the process for myself, 
but under your eye if you like,) from one to fifty. I have 
done so, and I do not find that the effects you assign follow 
from these minute elements. I have known many other 
people say the same. What am I to think of the matter ? 

You say that the experience of others is different : that 
they find the minute doses palpably " potential ; " that the 
effects of even a decillionth of some substances have been 
appreciable. No such averments can annul the negative 
instances I have mentioned ; for your inference, on the pos- 
itive side, may easily be the fallacy of " ISTon causa j^ro 
causa." For example, the peristaltic action is often slightly 
increased by the mere imagination that medicine has been 
taken, when it has not ; many other processes are similarly 
quickened by fancy ; in many, again, all that is required, is, 
instead of taking medicine, to use a little patience ; and na- 
ture will perform her wonted task without the globules, 
and will doubtless perform it none the less because of the 
globules. 

I have known a person, troubled with sleeplessness, take 
his invaluable " minutissimum " of a soporific, — his narco- 
tic atom, — and congratulate himself next morning that, 



TO A HOMCEOPATHIST. 303 

after only two hours or so of restlessness, lie fell into a calm 
sleep, — all owing, of course, to the viaticum of a globule ! 
I, on the other hand, equally troubled with sleeplessness, 
2)erform the same feat perpetually — without any globule at 
all. Two or three hours of sleeplessness are not spent alto- 
gether in vain. The simple solution is that both parties are 
wearied out, and at last go to sleep. 

Now I can account for the effects in many such cases, 
without suj^posing your globule has had anything to do 
with them ; but I cannot account for the icant of effect in 
the negative instances; that is, where your globules, to all 
consciousness, produce none. 

You may reply, perhaps, that there are cases in which 
large doses fail of their effect. I grant it ; there are no 
doubt cases in which the effect is intercej^ted by special 
causes; but we must go by general inductioyi^ and five 
grains of opium or two scruples of rhubarb will effectually 
convince nine hundred and ninety-nine out of every thou- 
sand that they have taken something. The difference in 
the two cases is, that those who venture to say they are 
conscious of the effects of your decillionths are, so far as I 
can find, very rare exceptions ; while, of those who take 
the larger doses, the rare exceptions are those who are 
not affected ; that is, the general rule and the excejjtions 
change places. Again, even when the larger doses fail of 
their general effect, they leave, I fancy, potent signs to con- 
sciousness that something has been taken ; whereas I can 
take one or ten of your decillionths of a grain every hour 
for four-and-twenty hours together without any conscious 
effects whatever; and other folks have similar obstinate 
ex^^erience. Once more, then, what am I to think of the 
matter as a Baconian ? 

You tell me, and truly, but to no purpose, that the most 
minute elements of nature arc often of the most potent 



304 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

character ; that a drop of the Cobra's jioison is fatal ; that 
in certain locaUties we breathe subtle forms of death, 
which we cannot detect. But here is still the difference ; 
we know these agents by their effects, which are the very 
things which I do not find in the exhibition of your infini- 
tesimal doses. About the bite of a rattlesnake (or even 
of a mosquito, for the matter of that) there is no mistake ; 
and if I could discern by any facts, whether of sense, con- 
sciousness, or reasoning, that the millionth j^art of a grain 
of belladonna had j^roduced any appreciable effect on me, 
I should just as easily credit it. My difficulty is that I 
cannot find the effects. 

You say that there are some substances so potent, that 
exceedingly minute doses — as of strychnine — have a sen- 
sible effect. I admit it ; but still if you keep to the same 
scale of minute doses, — minute proportionably as the med- 
icine is potent, — the same objections apply. A fraction 
of a gi'ain of strychnine is doubtless equal to many grains 
of nux vomica; but if you give only a quadrillionth or 
trecillionth of a grain, I shall still have no objection to 
take it. 

If you say there may be substances so potent that even 
such a dose may be aj^i^reciable, I should think the wisest 
way would be to have little to say to such dangerous j^oi- 
sons, since you cannot, I fear, control them. 

Another doubt I feel as to your infinitesimal doses is 
this. How can you be sure that you have administered 
them — that they liave got into the patient's stomach at all? 
If they have not got there, I admit that they will j^roduce 
no more effect than — they usually do when they have got 
there. ]>ut I know not how to be sure that they have 
reached their destination. They may, like the globule 
which was arrested in the hollow tooth of Hahnemann's 
patient (his solitary fatal case !) be waylaid by a million 



TO A HOMCEOPATHIST 305 

obstacles, each too much for the poor little atom. Like 
the elements of natm'e, which you truly say are too subtle 
for our inspection or control — the contagious air, for in- 
stance, whence we inhale poison without knowing it — • 
these infinitesimals are too minute for your manij^ulation. 
You had better leave them alone. 

Moreover, I cannot comprehend, on such a theory as 
yours, how it is that we can remain in health for a day, 
since we must be taking all day long through our lungs 
and in our food, (especially in these days of adulteration,) 
your minute doses of the most deleterious substances. If 
you say, according to the usual assumption, (and it is noth- 
ing more,) that they will only affect the man in disease, 
and not in health, then when he is out of health, positively 
ill, and under treatment, these j^otent, though inapprecia- 
ble agents, must come into play, and, one would think, 
must confound your therapeutics. If you say that they 
all happily neutralize one another, I suppose your little glo- 
bule will be but another element among them, and must, 
one would think, get neutralized too ; certainly you know 
as little what becomes of it as of them. At all events, it is 
clear that if such a chance-medley of potent " infinitesimals " 
can thus happily neutralize one another, anything like a 
calculable administration of your solitary "infinitesimal" 
is out of the question. One need not be surprised that 
the homoeopathist, the contents of whose chest his children 
got hold of, played with, and jumbled together, (all un- 
known to him,) went on practising with the same success 
as before ! In short, I cannot away with your hyj)othesis — 
or rather, I must away with it. 

Yours truly, 

E. E. H. G. 
26* 



306 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

LETTER LXX. 

to the same. 
My dear Friend, 

I begin to suspect the logic of your legal maxim, " De 
non apj^arentibus et non existeiitibus eadem est ratio ; " 
so valorously do you content for your infinitesimal doses. 
I cannot get myself to go further into them, but they shall 
be very welcome to go into me instead. 

You have far outdone the generality even of the 
homoeopathists themselves in the defence of Hahnemann's 
strange theory of " dynamisation," that is, that infinitesimal 
doses are not only potent, but potent in the ratio of their 
minuteness ; really I am unable to say one serious word 
to you. 

According to this, the " second, third, fourth, .... nth 
orders of infinitesimals " (as mathematicians would say) 
are progi-essively powerful ; in i^roj^ortion, it seems, as an 
atom becomes nearer to nothing, it becomes so much more 
efficacious ! Just as it vanishes, I presume, it must be — 
omnij^otent ! 

Nothing can exceed your doctrine except Hegel's philo- 
sophical paradox — Nothing — Being. If your theory be 
true, I marvel at the usual language of homoeopathists, who 
speak of the higher dilutions in the order of feebleness, not 
of potency, and tell a patient not to venture in such and 
such a case on anything stronger than No. 30 ! They ought 
rather to enlarge than diminish their doses, when they 
wish to diminish the effect ! Nay — surely a scruple of 
strychnine ought to produce less effect than a grain, and a 
grain than the trecillionth of it ! 

But there is one argument in your last letter I cnnnot 
let pass. You say that, at least, tlie public is indebted to 



TO A HOMCEOPATFIIST. 307 

the theory of minute doses for a modification in tlie prac- 
tice of allopathists ; that it has abridged that wholesale 
exhibition of drugs which used to be the fashion, and 
which turned many a poor patient's stomach into a drug- 
gist's shop. I am really pleased to believe that the rivalry 
between the medical .factions has been attended with some 
such eiFects. At the same time do not flatter yourself that 
the revolution is greater than it is. 

Too much physic used to be given, that is certain ; but 
do not suppose that all was physic that was taken. Kely 
on it, — as many a medical man's confession, if ingenuous, 
would show us, — that it was not left to the hom(E023athists 
to find out the art of doing nothing under the appearance 
of doing something, just to amuse a patient; "vixerunt 
fortes ante Agamemnona;" millions of bread j^iUs, millions 
of innocent drauixhts of infusion of roses and a dram of 
syrup, quite as harmless as your globules, used to travel 
down the throats of patients, simply because they would 
have something, and because the doctor must be paid. 

The only difference between the two classes of 23racti- 
tioners often is, that the one charges in the direct propor- 
tion of the innocent bulky nothing, and your friends charge 
in the inverse proportion of the innocent infinitesimal 
nothing. It was, I grant, a rather absurd j^ractice ; but, 
on the other hand, it was hard to know what to do, since 
many patients would not be cured unless they swallowed 
all this nothing ; and, what is much more important to the 
doctor, would not pay unless they had, as they thought, 
"value received" in the shape of the material drugs, in- 
stead of reckoning their true debt to be his visits and his 
skill. 

Strangest of all, the law allowed the general j^ractitioner 
his claims only in the shape of so much medicine from his — 
shop ! For aught I know, the law remains as it Avas ; but 



308 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

the sense of the peojole is beginning to see that a j^rofes- 
sional man is to be paid for his knowledge and his time, 
and not according to the "weight avoirdupois" of the 
goods he supplies from his warehouse. But, be assured, 
the essence of this branch of the art, — of doing nothing 
under imposing forais, — was understood long before 
homoeopathy was born, and will be understood as long 
as the credulity of patients shall demand that something 
be done when the medical man thinks that notliing 
need be. 

ISTor can I admit your sarcastic remark, that " if the 
globules do no good, they at least cannot on iny theory do 
harm ; and that this is more than can be said of allopathic 
doses." I fear there are many cases, and I have seen some, 
where your globules have done much harm by preventing 
anything good being done ; — where symptoms that re- 
quired prompt treatment, were dawdled with till disease 
got strength, and it Avas too late to do anything. I must 
also express my conviction that your doctors have an in- 
comparable knack at making hypochondriacs; and, as I 
must think, very naturally. How should it be otherwise ? 
Your system teaches a patient to believe that his life is 
ever at the mercy of infinitesimal elements and infinitesi- 
mal changes. Can he be other than fidgety about matters 
which never trouble other people's sleep ? 

Certainly, as far as I have observed, there are no folks in 
the world who require the doctor or take physic so often 
as the homoeoi:)athic j^atient ; hardly a day passes without 
the medicine-chest being opened ; well for him that it con- 
tains nothing ! Sunilarly, nobody is so sensitive about all 
sorts of innocent changes of air and diet. For my own 
part, it would be a torment to live on the terms of some of 
the votaries of your infinitesimal doses, whom I have 
known. 



TO A PIOMOEOPATIIIST. 309 

However, I freely admit that such people are to be met 
with often enough among the 2:>atients of allopathists ; 
though I must think that your system is specially adapted 
to befool a nervous temj^erament and stimulate a morbid 
fancy. 

I handsomely concede that there are classes of patients 
to whom your practice may be beneficial. 1st. I think it 
is of admirable use for those patients — and there are 
many — who have nothing in the loorld the matter loith 
them / for, as they will take physic, but require none, it is 
better they should take nothing, though they think it 
something! — at the same time, it must be said that the 
bread i^ills and the infusion of roses might, on the other 
system, do the work of nothing just as well. 2dly. For 
those who suffer from anomalous conditions of the nervous 
system, amenable, in a measure, to the fancy, (as they 
often seem to arise from it,) but whose symj^toms baffle all 
rational treatment. It is often very important that these 
patients be amused with the apj^earance of something 
being done, — though here again the more bulky vehicles 
of nothing may do as well, for aught I can see, as the 
infinitesimals. 3dly. For those who have, indeed, some- 
thing the matter with them, but whose symptoms are so 
obscure that a wise doctor is afraid to do anything lest he 
do mischief; while yet (the general case) the j^atient 
insists that something shall be done. Now here the glob- 
ulets (if I may venture on the double diminutive) are 
admirable, I admit ; though, again, the more corpulent pill 
of bread may be just as efficacious. 

I am afraid you Avill consider these large concessions of 
the utility of your doses rather an insult than a compli- 
ment ; but if so, you will please to recollect that it is ex- 
tended with much imi^artiality to the opposite practice. 
In good earnest, as long as men are so credulous in their 



310 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

reliance on medicine, as to insist that when the doctor 
knows that nothing need be done or can be done, or 
knows not what is to be done, he yet shall do something. 
I see no help for it. If it be gravely argued that it is 
unworthy of a physician to administer a system of delu- 
sion, and that he had better leave his patient uncured 
than cheat him into health, it is a pleasant question of 
casuistry which the doctor may, if he will, discuss in a 
clinical lecture, and see what his patient says to it. If the 
system be one of deception, I fear, nevertheless, that the 
physician must, to some extent, practise it or — starve. 

But, — pardon me for saying so, — excepting the above 
cases, that is, when disease and its indications do not 
summon to prompt and decisive treatment, I, for one, had 
rather not trust to the globules. 

Ever yours, 

E. E. H. G. 



LETTER LXXI. 

to the sa]me. 

My dear Feiend, 

It is in vain that you reiterate that you have " seen the 
good effects" of your darling globules — that you have 
seen your children recover under their use. I have 
already told you I have no diiBculty in believing any 
" facts," merely on account of their " mystery ; " and that 
if, on a fair induction, more patients were discovered to be 
cured by your system than by any other, I should believe 
in it, were it (if that be possible) ten times as mysterious. 
But a single case or two, or indeed any man's private 
experience, is not worth a rush in the controversy either 



TO A HOMCEOPATHIST. 311 

way: and for this simple reason — that every system of 
medicine might be proved equally efficacious on the same 
ground, inasmuch as it is the general rule that the sick get 
well, whether you do anything or not. Now, if I found, 
as I often should, that of three cases of (say) measles, all 
recovered, though one was treated allopathically, and one 
homoeopathically, and one not treated at all — (mind, I 
say not that it is of httle consequence which system, or 
whether any, be adopted, for Nature may be wisely aided 
even when she is quite competent to the case) — what 
right should I have to assign the cure, in the one case, to 
the infallible globule? You will say, — "As much as the 
allopathist to assign his cure to the more bulky drugs." 
1 answer, just as much, — that is, none at all; for the 
third cure, it seems, is to be attributed to — nothing ! In 
fact, such individual instances are of no value; nor any- 
thing less than the wide and patient inductions I men- 
tioned in the outset. 

A very common fallacy is that of " Non causa pro 
causa," and esi^ecially in medicine, where a plurality of 
causes or apparent causes may perpetually mislead. To 
the generality of men, it is enough if a certain antecedent 
has preceded a certain consequent, to satisfy them that 
there is the relation of cause and effect. 

Hence numberless fantastical remedies which differ- 
ent ages and nations have prescribed as useful in dis- 
ease, merely because their employment has happened to 
be nearly coincident with the cure, though they have no 
more caused it than the cock's crowing causes the sun to 
rise. This credulous association of a mere antecedent of 
the cure Avith the cause of it, (which is all but universal 
with patients,) is, it must be allowed, too much encour- 
aged by doctors of all kinds. Nothing is more common, in 
reports of cases, than to find an improvement attributed 



312 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

undoubtingly to the administration of such a medicine, 
when the difficulty really is to establish the connection 
If a i^atient gets icorse after the medicine, I never find 
this sequence insisted on; though, for anything that we 
know, it might be, just as reasonably. "Ah!" says a 
patient, " it was a good thing I called in the doctor ; he 
cured me." If he is cured without any doctor at all, he 
thinks nothing of it ! If a patient recovers, it is always 
the doctor that cures ; if he dies, ought it not often to be 
the doctor that kills? But it is then always — Nature. 
When the j^atient recovers, the doctor gets rid of the 
disease in spite of Nature ; when the patient dies. Nature 
gets rid of the patient in spite of the doctor ! How do we 
know how often the statement ought to be reversed; 
how often Nature saved the patient in spite of the doctor, 
and how often the doctor killed the patient in S2>ite of 
Nature ? 

You will say, perhaps, that I speak like one who is 
" sceptical " as to the use of medicine altogether ; you will 
infer falsely then. I do indeed believe that attacks of 
ordinary disease would in the immense majority of cases, 
be cured, though every physician in the world were 
poisoned; and that the great agent of cure is the "vis 
medicatrix" with which God himself has fenced the 
human organism, and by which it stoutly resists every 
incursion of disease. But I believe there is a noble sphere 
for the physician too ; though I frankly confess my fear, 
that from the extreme difficulty of a really comprehensive 
induction, — of establishing the true connection of " ante- 
cedents " and " consequents," and from the infinitely va- 
riable, evanescent phenomena the science has to deal 
with, — it will yet be many ages before it attains much 
certainty, and will always be, to a great extent, a science 
of guessiJig, Nevertheless, even now the wise physician 



TO A HOMCEOPATHIST. 313 

has plenty to do, — especially if he will not promise or 
attempt too much; if he will but be content to be the 
cautious '-'-naturm ^ninister^'^ and stand by with the hoj^e 
of aiding those processes within us, so many of which 
transcend all his art, and which, if he be rash, he may 
much more easily hinder than help ; if, in a word, he takes 
that view of his j^osition to which "old experience does 
attain," and which, in the language of Dr. Forbes, will 
lead him to acquiesce "in a mild tentative or expectant 
mode of 25i*actice;" — certain to appear wise " in old age, 
Avhatever may have been the vigorous or heroic doings of 
youth." 

Surely we must allow that even if the physician only 
alleviates pain, and abridges processes which might other- 
wise be tedious, he is well worth all his fees. Nor less if 
he takes charge of us in healthy and, studying its general 
physiological conditions, endeavors to keep us well. In 
truth, paradox as it may seem, it is when w^e are in health 
that we ought chiefly to look to the physician, and to 
avail ourselves of his skill. We should hear what he says 
(usually wise enough) about how we are to keep out of 
his hands ; about regimen, diet, hours, occupation, and so 
forth: and the next best thing is to consult him, not when 
we are^ but when we are going to be ill; when we are 
" getting out of health," as the j^hrase is. Then he has a 
chance of doing much more for us than in actual disease, 
and can often ward sickness off*, or break its force. We 
are told that the Chinese Emperor's j^lan is to pay his 
physician while he is in health, and stop his i^ay when 
sick : the j^lan is ingenious, but can hardly be safe ; for if, 
as the Celestials allege, it will stimulate the doctor's dil- 
igence, it is equally probable that should his Emperorship 
be laboring under a chronic or incurable disease, which 
might keep the doctor starving for a twelvemonth, it 

27 



314 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

might stimulate his industry a little too much, and usher 
in the reign of a younger and a more healthy monarch ! 
Nevertheless, it is quite true that while the physician 
keeps us in health he best deserves his fees, and if we 
knew our own interest, we should then most Avillingly pay 
them. 

In sickness, as I surmise, his art becomes darker and its 
success more dubious ; his study of physiology is calculated 
to do more for us than all his study of pathology. 

I have, you see, kej^t to my word, and said little or noth- 
ing of your system, except in relation to that point in which 
you have, to speak honestly, rather bored me, — the infini- 
tesimal globules. 

As to the " universal principle " of homoeopathy^ I leave 
it to professional people to fight it out, though I must say, 
for one, that the assertion of some one " universal princi- 
l^le," on which all diseases are to be cured, (like " Similia 
similibus curantur,") has a mighty occult quackish sound, 
and looks much more worthy of Paracelsus than Bacon. 
Neither does it seem quite fair of Hahnemann to charge all 
other practitioners with uniformly j^roceeding on some one 
opposite principle, as " allopathy or antipathy ; " for neither 
" homoeopathy " nor " allopathy " was ever heard of till he 
chose to invent the terms, and taking one himself, gave 
the other to all the rest of the medical world ; whereas, I 
suppose, there is hardly any practitioner that would deny 
there are some cases in which his " similia similibus " would 
apply well enough, though they would be loath to make it 
a " universal principle." 

By the way, I perceive with much satisfaction that these 
infinitesimal doses, which you are so anxious to vindicate, 
are no longer insisted on as necessary to the system, by 
your homoeopathic friends, — many of whom are abandon- 
ing them in practice. Most, I observe, are in open revolt 



TO A IIOMCEOPATHIST. 815 

against Hahnemann's principle of "clynamization," which 
affirms that drugs are ])Otent in proportion to the attenua- 
tion of the dose ; according to which a pinch of arsenic 
equally diffused in the Atlantic might prove fatal to all the 
fish in it ! — The curative property of a medicine is, accord- 
ing to Hahnemann, developed in a far higher degree by an 
inconceivably small than by a palpable dose ! 

Will you be angry if I tell you of a curious instance of 
tlie power of fancy in relation to your globules ? One of 
the "faithful" on a certain night had taken tico globules 
instead of one ; — perhaps three ! Alas I what was to be 
done in a case so imminent ? The unhappy man lived in a 
small town near Edinburgh, in whose benighted pre- 
cincts no homoeopathic practitioner was to be found, and 
in desperation deigned to consult an allopathic doctor, 
whom, in a tremor, he called up, to know whether he could 
do anything for him. The mystic tube was placed in the 
doctor's hands. The ignorant doctor looked at the globules 
in des2:)air. At length he poured a dozen or two mto his 
palm, and said, " My friend, I cannot save you, but I can die 
with you ! " He swallowed them ; and nothing coming of 
it, the patient took heart of grace, departed in peace, slept 
soundly, and was cured of his nervous flmcies and his dread 
of the despotic globules at the same moment. 

Forgive me in conclusion, if I just hint that the bold ex- 
hibition of your medicines, and the writing of " Defences '' 
of homoeopathy by utterly unprofessional folks, gives your 
system an undeniably empirical appearance to the world 
in generaL It looks as if you thought medicine the only 
thing that may be understood without study or experience ; 
that instead of being the most difficult, it is nearly the 
easiest of the sciences. Here are you, for example, a good 
lawyer certainly, but ignorant of the very elements of all 
those sciences which lie at the basis of the successful prac- 



31 G THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

tice of 3Icdicine, — of Anatomy, Physiology, Botany, 
Chemistry, — yet becoming quite a homceopathic knight- 
errant or evangelist ; — prescribing at any distance, and 
sending your all-saving globules by post ! I think, if I 
were a homoeopathic doctor, I should say of all such ama- 
teurs — " Non tali auxilio ." 

Yours truly, 

K. E. II. G. 



LETTER LXXII. 

TO ALFKED WEST, ESQ. 

London, Oct. 18G4. 
My dear Friend, 

The recovery of your casket was very remarkable ; and I 
am sure you ought to reverence hereafter the "Electric 
Telegra2)h," for without that you might never have seen it 
again. Certainly it plays the part of Puck to admiration ; 
and perhaps in time, to the shame of the nimble Ariel him- 
self, will put a girdle round about the earth, not in five-and- 
twenty, but in less than five minutes. I remember 
prophesying to an engineering friend, when the wires were 
first laid down a few miles out of London, that in all pro- 
bability some twenty years hence we should be able to 
transmit a message to Calcutta in seven minutes. He did 
not shake his head in grave doubt, but shook his sides in 
laughter of incredulity at the seeming extravagance of the 
thouijht ; but when the first few miles of submarine tele- 
graph were completed, he came over to my opinion, and 
declared his belief that the thing might be. 

Even in that case, however, we shall probably be as 
much struck with the limitations imposed on man's j^OAver, 
as with the extent of it; these will still be quite enough to 



FEATS OF THE ELECTRIC TELEGRAPH. 317 

keep him humble, if anything could keej) him so. You 
send home a message, for example, that trooj^s are instantly 
to be sent to India ; but as they cannot be sent by " Elec- 
tric Telegraph," they will make their appearance some 
three months after date, and perhaps as many after the 
crisis is over in which alone they could be of service. You 
send word for the " Vulcan " or the " Gorgon," or some 
other of those great war-steamers with the amiable names, 
to come home immediately. The mandate reaches them 
in five minutes ; they instantly obey, as far as the sluggish 
nature of steam permits (oh ! ye powers ! that ever " steam " 
should be so spoken of) ; and three months after, the lum- 
bering old hulks (still by comparison I speak) make them- 
selves visible at Spithead or the Kore. It is as though you 
sent a monkey to a sloth, bidding him look about him and 
be brisk ! The lightning of the " Telegraph " flashes from 
hence to India, from one end of heaven to the other, in a 
moment, and the report follows a quarter of a year after- 
wards. But all is typical of human conditions still ; it is 
the old contrast between promise and fulfilment — thought 
and execution — the tongue and the hand — swift imagina- 
tion and slow-paced reality. The electric flash is quick, 
but the flash of thought is quicker still ; and yet, with inert 
matter to deal with and vanquish, what years often elapse 
between a bright concej^tion like that of Watt, and the 
tardy realization ! 

Certainly some of the minor achievements of the " Tele- 
graph" are very amusing, — as in your case. To be sure, 
you would not call it so ; it was, to you, a grand feat, con- 
sidering the A^alue of the recovered Avaif Perhaps, too, the 
fond mother to whom the following happened, would think 
the like in her own case. She was travelling by express, 
and her little girl, feverish and thirsty, asked for a little 
water just as they Avere leaving a certain station. The 



318 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

mother threw open the window, and called to the guard to 
order a glass. But the inexorable train was just starting. 
" No time, madam," said the guard ; " but I will tell them to 
telegraph for one at the next station." No sooner said 
than done ; and at the next station, with due ceremony, 
out came the glass of water ready for her, though at rather 
a high price. Yet she thought it cheap enough. 

I remember, a few months ago, leaving by express that 
great trysting-place of railway trains — Normanton, where 
sometimes, for a few moments, there is a charming chaos of 
passengers and luggage to be despatched a thousand differ- 
ent ways. A lady, who did not know that she was to 
break her journey there, was suddenly summoned from her 
trance of satisfaction, and hastily quitting the carriage, left 
in the nettimx a nice silk umbrella. A few moments after 
she left, I noticed it, and remarked to a gentleman sitting 
by me, that we must remember, when we got out, to point 
it out to the guard, and describe the person who had left it. 
On getting to my destination, some thirty miles further on, 
I had no sooner deposited my portmanteau on the platform 
than I turned to look for some official that I might point 
out the stray property to him. I saw a guard standing at 
the door of the carriage I had just left, and told him : "All 
right, sir," said he, " I have got it. It has been telegraphed 
for from Normanton." But was it not too bad, to be thus 
balked in this attempt to do a little bit of kindness and 
honesty by that thief of a telegraph ? 

But I think the most curious fact, taken altogether, that 
I ever heard of the electric telegraph was told me by a 
cashier of the Bank of England. You may have heard of 
it. It may have been in print. I am sure it deserves to be. 
" Once upon a time," then, on a certain Saturday night, the 
folks at the Bank could not make the balance come right, 
by just 100/. This is a serious matter in that little estab- 



FEATS OF THE ELECTRIC TELEGRAni. 319 

lishinent : I do not mean the cash, but the mistake in arith- 
metic ; for it occasions a world of scrutiny. An error in 
balancing has been known, I am told, to keep a delegation 
of clerks from each office at work sometimes throuirh the 
whole night. A hue and cry was of course made after this 
100/., as if the old lady in Thread-needle Street would be 
in the Gazette for want of it. Luckily on the Sunday 
raormng, a clerk (in the middle of tlie sermon, I dare say, 
it the truth were known) felt a suspicion of the truth dart 
thix)ugh his mind quicker than any flash of the telegraj^h 
itself. He told the chief cashier on Monday morning, that 
perhaps the mistake might have occurred in packing some 
boxes of specie for the West Indies, which had been sent 
to Southampton for shipment. The suggestion was imme- 
diately acted upon. Here was a race — lightning against 
steam ! and steam with eight-and-forty hours' start given. 
Instantly the wires asked, " Whether such a vessel had left 
the harbor ? " " Just w^eighing anchor," was the answer. 
*' Sto]) her ! " frantically shouted the electric telegraph. It 
was done. " Have up on deck certain boxes marked so and 
so : weigh them carefully." They were weighed ; and one 
— the delinquent — was found heavier by just one packet 
of a hundred sovereigns than it ought to be. " Let her go," 
said the mysterious telegraph. The West Indian folks 
were debited with just lOOZ. more, and the error was cor- 
rected without ever looking into the boxes or delaying the 
voyage by an hour. Now that is what may be called " do- 
ing business." 

Yours, 

E. E. H. G. 



320 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 



LETTER LXXIII. 

TO A MESMERIC ENTHUSIAST. 

3Iy DEAR Friend, 

Your " furor mesmericus " amuses me. I quite agree 
with you that there is no possibiUty of arguing against 
tacts ; it is their amount and significance alone that I ques- 
tion in the present case. I have no manner of doubt in the 
workl that you have witnessed, as you say, the artificial 
production of some curious phenomena. They seem to me 
to resemble in many respects those which somnambulism 
spontaneously presents, and probably depend on similar 
conditions. I doubt, however, — see my moderation, — the 
entire phenomena of " clairvoyance, " as you call it ; and 
also whether even those more limited phenomena, the occur- 
rence of which I do not doubt, are referrible to any myste- 
rious influence proceeding from those who profess to 
exercise the function of mesmerists ; whether there be any 
" nervous emanation " issuing from them, or any incompre- 
hensible dominion exerted over the will of their patients, 
or indeed any other influence whatever than is implied in 
activity of imagination and susceptibility of nerves in the 
latter. It seems to me that it is loithin and not yylthout^ 
that the true causes of the phenomena, so far as they are 
real, are to be sought ; in the advantage w^hich the condi- 
tion of the patient gives the operator, not in any power 
which proceeds from hhn ; not in the pokings and wavings, 
called " passes, " of the operator's fingers. Of course the 
stronger the belief in his mystical power the greater will be 
the operator's chance of success ; but all such 2:)redisposing 
causes are the patient's contributions to the result, not 
those of the mesmerist. In a word, I believe the fortress is 
surrendered, not taken by assault. 



TO A MESMERIC ENTHUSIAST. 321 

And this, I tliink, accounts in part for the capricious 
character of the phenomena ; that one man is not at all 
affected, another slightly ; this man soon, another slowly ; — 
I think, I say, it accounts for the facts more easily than 
your mysterious talk of " passes, " " mesmeric currents, " 
" magnetic fluids, " and sympathetic " rapports." 

I have myself been under a somewhat celebrated ope- 
rator's hands ; and nothing came of it. I am so far, how- 
ever, from being incredulous on that account, as to the 
facts of which you speak, that I can the more readily credit 
them ; for though I do not admit that they are due to some 
mysterious influence on the operator's part, I am inclined to 
believe, from my own experience, that there is perha^^s no 
one who might not be brought into a condition of catalepsy 
by subjection of the optic nerve, or possibly any other sur- 
face of sensation, to prolonged and monotonous stimulation. 

Nay, though the mesmerist's operation, (by the influence 
which the flincy or nervous susceptibility of the patient 
may give to him,) may facilitate the result, I believe that it 
might generally be produced without any operation at 
all ; — the effect being more or less rapidly induced, and 
more or less marked, according to the constitutional pecu- 
liarities of the individual. I quite believe that if a man, 
even by hhnself^ were to fix his eyes intensely on a small 
bright disk without wnnking, he would after a time find 
himself (or rather be found) in a state of catalepsy. Some 
of the familiar experiments we have most of us made, or 
seen made, with birds, when we w^ere schoolboys, — and 
the initial sensations which any man, alone, may induce in 
himself at will, by playing similar scientific pranks, confirm 
me in this suspicion. I have heard of a man involuntarily 
playing the mesmerist on himself, while intently watching 
delayed signals of the electric telegraph ; the intense 
unbroken gaze at length terminated in a fit of catalepsy ; 



322 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

and I can easily credit it. Probably there is no man, how 
ever strong his nerves, who could endure an indefinitely 
prolonged umoinhbig gaze on a small defined disk without 
becoming unconscious ; the trial with the human eye is still 
more difiicult, as boys who attempt the feat of " staring 
each other out of countenance " soon find. Certainly, when 
I underAvent my mesmerist's gaze, I felt how easily the 
condition might be sui^erinduced in men of weak nerves ; 
and that liahit and j)ower of endurance alone Avould settle 
the question as to which was the operator and which the 
patient. It might well happen, I fancy, that the operator, 
if he chanced to meet with a sturdy customer, might find 
himself operated upon instead of operating^ — conjugatmg 
the " passive " instead of the " active " voice. At all 
events, I doubt whether any man's eye could bear, without 
being refreshed and brushed each moment (as nature 
intends it should) by nictation, to gaze for an unlimited 
time on a small bright disk; and I do not doubt, that if 
compelled to do so, the phenomena of your mesmeric cata- 
lepsy — or something resembling it — would supervene. 
And it is very possible that the same might happen if the 
auditory nerve, or some limited portion of the tactual sur- 
face were similarly subjected to an unvarying stimulus. 
Variety of sensation and variety of thought are essential to 
us ; and mind and body bear testnnony to the same pecu- 
liarity of our constitution. The same thought would soon 
drive us mad ; and continued intense iteration of the same 
sound, if it did not force poor mind to take refuge in sleep, 
would, I fancy, force it to take refuge in catalepsy. 

You see, therefore, that so far from denying those ''''facts " 
of mesmerists about which you make so much noise, I be- 
lieve them to be more universal than you do ; I also admit 
them to be very curious and worthy of investigation, 
though not more so than those of somnambulism ; only I do 



TO A MESMERIC ENTHUSIAST. 323 

not believe that they flow from some mysterious " influ- 
ence" of your scientific hierophauts, whom I place, pace 
tud^ on the same footing with fortune-tellers or conjurers. 

Whether it be wise to superuiduce any abnormal state 
like that of artificial catalepsy, — whether it is always safe 
to do so, — I have my doubts ; or at least we should not 
for the sake of mere curiosity. 

Such are my views of ordmary " mesmeric " phenomena ; 
but as to what you call " clairvoyance," whereby men, it 
seems, may see with the back of their heads, and read out 
of their toes, I regard it as unsophisticated nonsense. 

Yours truly, 

K. E. II. G. 



LETTER LXXIV. 

TO THE SAME. 



l^ox. 1&51. 



My dear Feiexd, 

I am not a little amused by your putting me on the de- 
fensive. "When you ask me how, as a disciple of the Induc- 
tive Philosophy, I can call the alleged facts of " clairvoyance" 
in question, I answer at once that it is precisely because I 
amsueli. You say that the incomprehensibility of the facts 
is no reason for their rejection ; it is quite true, but nothing 
to the purpose. What I want is the facts ; undoubted, 
well-authenticated facts. That people can read (or rather 
divine what is in a book) M'ith their eyes shut ; tell what 
is doing at a given moment, by people they have never 
seen, in a house a hundred miles olT; send a person, at an 
equal distance, to sleep, by means of a pair of mesmerized 
gloves, — surely I may be excused for asking stringent 
proof of such things. You say that there is adequate, un- 
impeachable testimony to such facts, however strange they 



324 THE GliEYSO^ LETTEKb. 

may be. I answer, that when I sift the testimony, I do not 
find it adequate. I find so much that requires to be at 
once rejected, that it necessarily casts susjjicion on that 
scanty remainder of quasi facts I cannot account for ; and 
it is more rational to conchide that they are not to be re- 
hed upon than that they are. 1st. I see that many of tlie 
alleged facts I have heard, and some I have had an oppor- 
tunity of investigating, have turned out to be absolute 
trickery; neither better nor worse than a common con- 
jurer's tricks; exactly on a par with the feats of the 
renowned Sidroj^hel of " Hudibras," or Cadwallader of 
" Peregrine Pickle ; " and who shall say how many more 
of your feats of mysterious intelligence are similarly the 
efiect of concert and collusion ? 2dly. Other wonderful 
stories of the kind, when unswathed from the voluminous 
folds of exaggeration in Avhich successive reporters have 
wrapped them, (nay, the imagination of even two or three 
will often suffice,) have shrunk into such minikin propor- 
tions that we can hardly see anything wonderful at all. 
What B has unconsciously given to the narrative of A, and 
C to that of B, and D to that of C, has made something 
jwrtentous in the accuracy of a clairvoyant's responses ; 
when the real facts, at last got at, show only some vague 
relation between question and answer, or, it may be, some- 
thing like a curious coincidence. The glowing imagination 
of an enthusiast can unconsciously shape these ductile and 
fluent elements into what it will ; I say, unconsciously — 
for it may all be done without lying. 3dly. Though most 
desirous of seeing some of those wonderful things you say 
you have imdoubtedly Avitnessed, they have somehow 
always escaped me. I have unluckily seen no phenomena 
which need, for their solution, any such hypothesis as 
yours. You say " seeing is believing," and that you have 
seen; I answer, perhaps so; but I have not seen; and in 



TO A MESMERIC ENTHUSIAST. 325 

such a case, and in such ragged condition of the testimony, 
" not seeing " is (or ought to be) " not believing." 4thly. 
I find that another large deduction from the reported facts 
is to be made on another score, — the credulity of specta- 
tors. I find that if clairvoyant conjurers find any difficulty 
in bamboozling their audience, their audience often take 
the trouble oif their hands by bamboozling themselves ; 
they like to be duped, and duped they are. A little while 
ago, a shrewd friend of mine (a medical man,) at an even- 
ing exhibition of the " phenomena," got near a clairvoyante 
who Avas conveniently en rapport with the chief exhibitor. 
She, my friend was told, w^ould and could say nothing 
except through the exhibitor as the mediiun. My friend, 
however, kept near, and while Mr. Exhibitor was befooling 
his gaping audience, threw her off her guard, and got the 
dumb lady to speak. The meeting broke up in most ad- 
mired disorder ; but what thanks did my friend get for un- 
masking the cheat ? Just this — " Confound that Mr. ; 

what right had he to i^ut in his oar ? He has completely 
spoiled the evening ! " Are not such things almost enough 
to make one say — ** Populus vult decipi et decipietur ? " 
5thly. Your experiments are all of the " tentative " charac- 
ter ; not only do they generally issue in nothing that needs 
investigation, but they oftener issue in nothing, than not. 
Pardon me for saying that your enthusiasm wholly runs 
away with you when you so rashly affirm, that if you reject 
the phenomena of clairvoyance, you must reject the miracles 
of the New Testament ! It is impossible to imagine any- 
thing more ludicrously unlike than the two things. Not 
only is the testimony for the Scripture miracles utterly dis- 
similar from that for your pretended wonders, in the several 
respects I have already mentioned, but in this .last it is 
diametrically opposite. If I found that Christ and His 
apostles professed, like the Catholics at the tomb of the 

28 



826 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

Abbe de Paris, to i^erform miracles only of a " tentative " 
character ; — if they sometimes tried to heal the .sick, and 
more frequently failed than not ; to cure epilepsy or bad 
eyes, and only now and then succeeded, I should know 
what to think of the matter ; I should think it more proba- 
ble tliat the precarious success m a few cases was owing to 
favorable circumstances in the patients — to the conditions 
of the nervous system, and the character of the disease — 
than to any supernatural power. I should think the symp- 
toms yielded to the mfluence of fxith and imagination in 
the patient, (as in many diseases they often will,) not to 
the power of the thaumaturge. And even so, when I find 
that in the greater number of your exhibitions none of the 
wonderful things promised are done, I naturally attribute a 
few seeming prodigies to lucky guesses, curious coincidences, 
accident or fraud, rather than to any mysterious jjowers in 
your uncertain wonder-workers. 6tlily. I am compelled to 
argue thus when I find that none of your clairvoyants can 
or will solve any of the simple riddles proposed to them ; 
for not a soul of you would even hazard a guess at the 
number of that bank note in the Dublin Bank, which was 
promised to tiie happy guesser ; — as I also hereby promise 
to make you or any of your friends a present of the bank 
note at which I am now looking, if you will but tell me either 
the bank, the number, or the date ! In such cases there is 
at least a chance of success, and yet none of you will seize 
it. How confounding, again, are the failures in the case of 
Sir John Franklin ! He ought to have been home long 
ago, if clairvoyants had not been as blind as buzzards ; for 
they have again and again hazarded the promise. 

A few years ago some English engineers were employed 
in raising a sunken vessel at the mo^ith of the Seine, (it had 
been there many years,) which Avas confidently reported 
to be the very vessel in which, at the first Revolution, 



TO A MESMERIC ENTHUSIAST. 327 

much of the royal plate and treasure had been wrecked. 
"When the operation commenced, so heated were the fancies 
of some who were interested in its successful accompUsh- 
ment, that they could not help being tickled witli tlie 
favorable visions of a celebrated clairvoyant^ who plainly 
saw vases, goblets, salvers of gold and silver, ingots^ — 
goodness knows what ! Half unbelieving, his hearers were 
yet half cajoled by their own hopes. Alas ! it turned out 
to be only a cargo of tallow. 

Though your twitting me with a departure from the 
caution of the " inductive philosophy," has provoked me to 
carry the war into the enemies' quarters, and to show that 
yoit are the party really chargeable with the fault, I shall 
not scruple to say that these fantastical '-'■ facts " are among 
the few things that I should think it quite competent to 
reject on a priori grounds alone. There are two, which I 
think quite enough to settle the question ; but as this letter 
is already unconscionably long, I shall reserve them for 

another 

Yours, 

E. E. n. G. 



LETTER LXXV. 

TO THE SAME. 



Nov. 1851. 



My dear Feiexd, 

The two things which I deem sufficient to expose your 
clairvoyant pretensions, are these, — 1. You require me to 
believe that the laws which so palpably limit and control 
both the mode and extent of human knowledge are capri- 
ciously repealed, every time your Experimenters think 
proper to demand it, for the most trumpery gratifications 
of their trumpery curiosity ; when, for example, they think 
proper to see bHndfold, or to tell us what is taking j^lace in 



328 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

the beck drawing-room of No. 6, Russell Square, — the 
clairvoyant never having been there, and being, at this 
present, at ISTewcastle-on-Tyne, or Dublin ! If any one 
thing is obvious as a general laio^ (and plainly necessary it 
is for the government of the world,) it is this, — that we 
are not allowed to look through " stone walls " nor into 
other people's breasts ; that the heart of our neighbor is to 
liim an inviolable sanctuary, except so far as the language 
of his tongue or of his actions discloses his thoughts, and 
that only the eye of Omniscience can pry there. This I 
say is plainly the law under which we live, and indeed 
Avithout it, society would be intolerable. Yet you suppose 
that Omniscience entrusts the key of this lock to every quid 
nunc of a clairvoyant ; and, as far as we can judge from 
the trifling purposes for which the experiments are usually 
made, and the equally trifling results in which they usually 
end, for the mere gratification of an idle curiosity ! Nay, 
you must believe, in efi*ect, that God delegates, for a mo- 
ment, nothing less than the use of His omniscience to Mr. 
A. or Mr. B., who is requested to be pleased to tell instan- 
ter what Mr. Smith is doing at the present moment at any 
house in London ; Avhat has become of Sir John Franklin 
at the North Pole ; or what is taking place in the centre 
of the earth, or the bottom of the ocean ; and all, so far 
as I can discern, — all — ( proh pudor ! ) that a set of 
gaping youths and gossiping dowagers may have an 
idle hour enlivened and a foolish wonder gratified, as 
they dawdle over a cup of tea in Professor Slowman's 
drawing-room ! So strongly do I believe that the laws 
which God has established secure the lock of every man's 
thoughts from clairvoyant impertinence, that if (which I 
never had a chance of) I saw any of the wonderful facts 
to the contrary which you retail, I should certainly believe 
that God, at least, had nothing to do with them. If after 



TO A MESMERIC ENTHUSIAST. 329 

having provided himself, for example, with such questions 
as I alone could answer, and yet of the same trumpery 
character as those which your friends, on the 18th ult., put 
to their oracle, I found really accurate responses, I acknowl- 
edge that I should at once agree with you that there was 
something in it — and a devilish deal too ; but, so strong is 
my a priori view of the extreme improbability of God's 
systematically infringing His general laws at the beck of 
your clairvoyants^ and for their nonsensical purposes, that 
I should deem it far more probable that, in the particular 
case, (perhaps to j^unish silly folks for their credulity, curi- 
osity, and presumption,) he had for once permitted a 
mischievous imp to play the oracle ; I should be inclined to 
say — " Monsieur Clairvoyant, or Madame Clairvoyante, 
(as the case may be,) I am now perfectly convinced that 
there is something in you ; but being also convinced, as 
strongly as I can be of anything, that the laws of God are 
diametrically opposed to this habit of prying into our neigh- 
bor's bosom, I am inclined to surmise that your power has 
rather a suspicious origin, and the less I see of you the 
better ; I beg to decline any further familiarity with your 
familiar." However, I shall know how to deal with these 
phenomena, which somehow never come in my way, when 
I meet with them. 

2. My second reason, wholly unconnected with any ex- 
periments, is, that I do not find that man makes any appli- 
cation of these wonderful powers ; Avhich I think he loould 
do, if there were anything in them. There is one thing 
which can infallibly be depended on, if nothing else can ; 
and that is, that men are surprisingly 'cute, as Sam Slick 
says, in discovering their own interest — " that's a fact." 
When the steam engine — the railway — the illuminating 
power of gas — the electric telegraph, are placed at man's 
disposal, they are not permitted to remain idle toys ; they 

28* 



330 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

are instantly welcomed, and applied to the most compre- 
hensive uses. And yet what are any of these or all of them 
together, compared with the power, both for good and evil, 
of the faculty of clairvoyance, if there were any such thing ? 
Would either man's cupidity or benevolence be blind to 
such a marvellous agent? What a means of detecting 
criminals, — of tracing "lost, stolen, and strayed I " What 
a reinforcement of Bow Street ! What a happy supplement 
would it afford to evidence when a prisoner does not make 
confession — or, for the matter of that, how easy to take a 
peep into his bosom and make the confession for him I What 
a help to the doctor, — and surely no less to the patient, 
whose entrails might thus be subjected, not to a lamentable 
jyost mortejn, but a salutary ante Tiiorteni examination ! 
What an instrument for diplomatists — what an invaluable 
picklock to open hostile cabinets ! What a pleasant, painless 
rack for wormmg out political secrets ! What an instru- 
ment, above all, in war! How cheaply the newspapers 
might keep " our own correspondent " in every quarter of 
the world — who yet need never go beyond the sound of 
Bow Bells ! How priceless, in all these cases, Avould be a 
genuine clairvoyant ! 

You will say, perhaps, that there are those who consult 
this oracle. Well, I believe some credulous persons do so 
now and then, just as some go to the vulgar fortune-teller : 
but iiit were found to ansioer^ everybody icoidd. No such 
discovery will human interest and human cupidity, or even 
human philanthropy, allow to remain unfruitful. You will 
say, perhaps, that it would be a dreadful thing if clairvoy- 
ance loere thus resorted to ; that men would be secretly cir- 
cumventing one another, to the utter ruin of the world ! 
That is a very good reason, a priori^ against the existence 
of such a power, and an excellent reason, if it did exist, why 
men should not employ it ; but no reason — alas ! why they 



'* CONTRE-TEMPS." 331 

would not ; for when was there any lack of men ready to 
use any instrument, good or evil, that answered their pur- 
pose ? And in this case, if any did use it and found it effec- 
tual, all micst, if only in self-defence ; just as, if bad men 
draw swords, good men must draw them too. 

Till I see the sharp wit of man thus turning your clair- 
voyance (as everything else that can be so turned) to prac- 
tical purposes, I shall continue to rank it with so many kin- 
dred delusions, which in every age, for a few months or 
years, amuse those whose fancy is stronger than their rea- 
son, and then pass away for ever. 

I am yours, 

E. E. H. G. 



LETTER LXXVI. 

TO KEV. C. ELLIS. 

Dec. 1854. 
My dear Friexd, 

Has it never struck you that many of the events of life 
occur in such a serio-comic manner (as one may say), invol- 
ving so much transient vexation, yet so barren, as far as we 
can see, of any results, that if we did not believe all tilings 
under the control of a superintending wisdom, one might 
refer them to that sort of playful, sportive malice which 
schoolboys certainly have, and fairies were formerly sup- 
posed to have ; malice, which enjoyed the exquisite momen- 
tary distress, the comic perplexity of mortals, yet without 
any serious intention of doing any great mischief? I do 
not wonder that our forefathers should have resorted to 
Puck, Robin Goodfcllow, and their company, to account 
for these contre-tetnjys. 

I have just had a specimen of this sort of practical joke. 



332 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

On a recent journey I had had a small box of important 
docmnents intrusted to me by a friend ; I wiUingly took 
charge of it, and as it was to . be under my own eye, I 
scrawled on it in joke, " John Smith, passenger." On en- 
tering the Babel-like station of one of the great centres of 
railway traffic, the box intrusted to me was set down for a 
moment with my portmanteau ; and while I was setthng 
with the cabman, an officious porter, concluding that it was 
going by a train just loading, carried it away, and by the 
time I turned to take it, he and the treasure had vanished. 
My train, by which I was to go, was within five minutes of 
starting, and in a state of the greatest possible excitement I 
raced up and down the chaos of stairs and platforms in 
search of the box. Almost at the last moment, I found it 
in a distant corner just opposite a train going in a totally 
different direction : in five minutes it would have been 
whirled off, and in three hours snatched half the length of 
the kingdom from its negligent custodier. I probably 
should have recovered it, but, possibly also, I should not. 
Even the telegraph would not have helped me except I had 
telegraphed to every point of the compass ; and then only 
think of telegraphing for something belonging to " John 
Smith, passenger." Ten to one there were a thousand 
joackages so marked ! Unhappy name ! 

As it was, — nothing came of the matter that I could find, 
then or since, except five minutes of exquisite panic and 
vexation, — much such as a mischievous monkey maybe 
supposed to delight in inflicting. Certainly, if I had be- 
lieved in Puck I should have thought he had assumed the 
guise of that " railway porter." 

Yet we never know whether there may not be more than 
seems in such apparently trivial things, — and my faith, 
though not my reason, assures me there is. One compre- 
hensive solution of many such tilings a devout man will 



" CONTRE-TEMPS." 333 

thankfully find in his ignorance of what might have occurred 
had it not been for such diversion. It is obvious that five 
minutes, nay, one, — nay, a second, may suffice for events 
of the last importance to us ; to remain on this spot rather 
than to move ten paces off, may be the difference between 
death and life ; a change of purpose for a quarter of an hour 
may lead us out of a great danger or into one ; being pre- 
vented from going by this ship instead of that, may protect 
us from shipwreck, or expose us to it ; a few minutes' con- 
versation in the street with a bore we tremble to see coming 
may delay us till some unknown peril, which may be cross- 
ing our path, and which we should else have encountered, 
has passed and left the way clear : in fact, the most insig- 
nificant change or obstruction or acceleration of our purposes 
may be connected, and cannot but be, with the most impor- 
tant events of life to us all ; and thus they may subserve the 
most momentous purposes, though we are ignorant of them. 
The region of the " Media Scientia," as the scholastic divines 
used to call it — the region of the " possible " — of the 
things that loould happen if something else did not, — may 
suggest the key to what often seem to us the most sportive 
pranks of a purposeless destiny. And on reflecting, we may 
perhaps see there is also another solution : for may they not 
be designed to quicken gratitude ? Where transiently vex- 
atious events have occurred without serious results, ought 
we not thankfully to remember how easily they might have 
terminated otherwise ? Shall we perversely desire a catas- 
trophe because owe fears are disappointed ? 

I remember, when a boy of ten years of age or so, lying, 
on a tem^^estuous autumn day, at the foot of a huge elm at 
the head of a noble avenue of like giant trees, and listening 
with solemn delight to the roar of the wind in the branches ; 
all at once I heard a sound which sharply rose above the 
din of the storm ; — a crash — a sweej) — and I felt that 



334 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

sometliing was the matter in the upper regions of the tree. 
I rolled and scrambled away as fast as I could a few paces, 
and a moment after, down came a heavy branch on the very 
spot where I had been lying, and which, had I not got out 
of its way, would have crushed me. Could I look, boy as I 
was, on the escape, without a gush of gratitude ? And such 
in every like case, spite of all the metaphysics of fatalism, is 
the unsoi^histicated feeling of humanity. 

Yet some " contre-temps " are so exquisitely droll that 
one would almost suppose their chief object was to furnish 
us, in the retrospect, with a more than compensating amuse- 
ment for our vexation. *' Ha3c olim meminisse juvabit " — 
would seem to apply to not a few of our minor distresses. 
Did I ever tell you of a circumstance which our old friend 
J. M. used to relate of some friends of his ? Two young 
ladies in Devonshire one day wished to visit some relatives 
a dozen miles off. Their brother, — a harum-scantm sort 
of a fellow, and who rode a horse as Jiarum scarum as him- 
self, which he had very properly christened " Mad Tom," 
— offered to drive them. Albeit Mad Tom was very restive 
in harness, he assured them he could manage the brute. 
They consented ; but such were the creature's flings, and 
kicks, and shyings, and deviations to the right and left, that 
he kept the sisters in a perpetual panic. However, they at 
last reached their destination in safety ; but nothing could 
induce them to repeat the experiment, and even young 
harum-scarum did not seem to relish it. Accordingly, he 
agreed to return on horseback, while his sisters borrowed 
their host's little pony-chaise and his old gray pony, which 
never forgot a becoming gravity either of pace or demea- 
nor. They set out, on a lovely summer evening, on the 
journey homeward. My young master stayed for half an 
houi* or so, to take a parting cup with his host, and then 
clattered off after his sisters. They, good souls ! w^ere qui-. 



" CONTRE-TEMPS." 335 

etly jogging, with the old gray pony, along a narrow lane, 
fenced by a high hedge on each side, thinking no harm in 
the world, and congratulating themselves that they had so 
happily escaped Mad Tom. All at once they heard a terri- 
ble tramp and shouting behind them, and, turning their 
heads, saw, horror of horrors ! the ungovernable brute com- 
ing at a pace which would soon bring him upon them. He 
had e\idently got the upper hand, and then- brother's shouts 
were to warn them to get out of the way. They edged and 
edged towards the ditch — Mad Tom came uj:), just grazed 
the wheel, but evidently out of malice prepense allowed 
them as little room as possible — pushed, as he passed, 
against the honest gray, and in a moment the pony and 
chaise and the fair sisters were tumbled into the ditch, while 
Mad Tom, and his equally mad rider, swept away like the 
whirlwind. 

The young ladies were, happily, uninjured; but they 
often used to laugh, in after days, at their momentary terror 
when they saw the demon of a horse aj^parently bent on 
their destruction ! 

An old friend once told me that, having taken a long jour- 
ney on horseback, he was musing, during the last stage, with 
grateful memory, on the immunity from danger he had en- 
joyed : that his horse had not fallen mth him, nor he fallen 
from his horse, and so on ; when, unhappily, just in the midst 
of his devout ejaculations, Dobbin stumbled, threw him on 
his face, and almost broke his nose ! Was the good man, 
by his ill-timed meditation, abstracted too much from the 
outward practical duty of attending to his horse, and Avas 
he thus to be taught that for " everything there is a season?" 
or was he too much uplifted with the complacent thought 
of the special ^Yo\:Q^Q^AO\\. and favor he had enjoyed? — for 
such is our folly, that even pious gratitude is apt to express 
itself in forms which look much more like absurd vanity. 



336 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

Aj^art from some such views, this " contre-temps " look as 
like a little piece of sportive malice, as one can well imagine^ 
Well, in spite of all contre-temps^ I hope to sj^end Christ- 
mas with you; — that is, ?*/* nothing haj^pens to j^rcA^ent it, 
as it is certain ten millions of things may ; if I am alive 
and well ; if you are alive and well ; if no other friend has 
met with any misfortune which shall keep me away ; ifi 
when I have started, the railway train does not meet with 
a mishap ; if that awful omnibus for the last five miles 
does not break down, — no unlikely matter by the way . 
and if I should survive that last dreary, doleful part of the 
journey ! As to your giving me a welcome — that is a con- 
tingency I do not think it worth while to sj^eculate about ; 
so much more surely, after all, can we calculate on moral 
than on the combinations of ^^Aysica/ causes; so much more 
permanent, amidst all man's j^roverbial fluctuations, are the 
relations which human character establishes, than those of 
the ever shifting scene of events in which we play our part; 
events the nearest of which we cannot foresee, and the 
minutest of which we cannot control, amidst all the boasted 

'•'' prevision " of science ! 

Yours truly, 

E. E. H. G. 



LETTER LXXVII. 

TO THE SAME. 

Dec. 11, 1854. 
My dear Friend, 

By way of postscript to my last, I must mention two or 

three other droll incidents of the class referred to in my 

last letter, which have since occurred to remembrance. 

They will, if I mistake not, illustrate the subject rather 

strikingly. 



" CONTRE-TEMPS.' 337 

A friend of mine, wlio lived a few miles from London, 
was going thither in his i^ony-chaise one rainy morning, 
and could not find his umbrella. He borrowed a silk one 
of his sister in-law, and lost that on the way. " Well," he 
thought, " poor girl, she shall have a good one to make up 
for it." He bought for her one of the very best he could 
find, and lost that going back! 

Another friend, in the old coaching days, was going, one 
cold winter's night, by mail from London, and debated in 
his mind whether he should save the difference of the in- 
side fare at the expense of his benumbed toes and fingers. 
He thriftily reasoned that he wanted a new silk umbrella, 
which the proposed economic dodge would just pay for. 
But alas ! having fallen into a miserable nap in the morn- 
ing watch, he found, when he woke, that his umbrella had 
slipped out of his hand ; and thus he had the satisfaction 
of travelling outside at inside price ! A third friend, stay- 
ing for a night in Manchester, debated whether he should 
take a cab and go to see some friend who lived in the 
suburbs ; " But," thought he, " it is uncertain if I shall 
find him at home, and if not, it will be five shillings thrown 
away." So he thought he would just take a short walk 
in the town instead. Before he had been out of the hotel 
five minutes, he found himself minits a new silk handker- 
chief, for which he had just given the very sum that would 
have paid for the cab ! To such things as these even the 
" Hcec olim memmisse juvabit " will hardly apply. 

But the most provoking and serious of all such tragi- 
comedies I ever heard of occun-ed a short time ago. You 
may have seen some account of it in the newspapers. A 
gentleman at Liverpool, about to remove to Oswestry, had 
some valuable paintings which he thought he could not 
take too mucli care of Afraid to trust them to the rough 
handling of the rail, he had them carefully packed in a 

29 



338 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

van, and committed tliem to the leisurely transit of the 
ordinary road. The journey was safely accomplished, all 
but a poor mile or so j in fact, to within sight of Oswestry. 
At that point the luckless wain had to cross the rail, and 
some obstacle occurred, just as it got half across. At this 
fatal moment, an approaching train was heard, the driver 
got flurried, and before he could get his precious charge 
across, the remorseless engine came up — dashed pell-mell 
into the unlucky van, and sent all the treasures of art to 
the four winds. A minute later or a minute earlier, and 
all would have been safe. To have taken such pains to 
escape the disasters of the railway — so nearly to have 
accomplished the object and then to be smashed by one of 
the very accidents against which there had been such covstly 
securities, made the whole thing a thousand times more 
provoking. It looked almost as if the genius of the rail, 
jealous and angry of the implied distrust, had watched its 
opportunity, and taken, at the last moment, a dire and ef- 
fectual revenge. To complete the disaster, the poor gen- 
tleman went to law to recover damages, and was — non- 
suited ! 

Yours ever, 

K. E. H. G. 



LETTER LXXVIII. 

TO C. MASON, ESQ. 

1855. 

My dear Mason, 

I have just been running through the " Memoirs of a 
Stomach" you sent me. There is some smartness in it, 
and a good deal of sense too ; and yet it is impossible to 
get over the absurdity of thus personifying the respectable 
viscus, and making it chatter about anatomy, physiology, 



ON THE "MEMOIRS OF A STOMACH." 339 

and chemistry ! This sort of allegory will only admit of 
the briefest j^ossible handling and the lightest touch. Ad- 
dison might have given a graceful short paj^er on it, after 
the manner of the fable of " Menenius Agripj^a," which 
is almost as long as we can permit the separate organs of 
the body to talk to us or with one another. When the 
stomach twaddles away on pathology and metaphysics, 
copies physicians' prescrijDtions, and refines on the effects 
of " bismuth of lead " and " sesquicarbonate of potash," it 
is a little de trop. I am speaking of the brochure simply 
as a work of art — for really the philosoj^hy of it is as sen- 
sible as if it came out of the brain instead of the stomach. 

If we could suppose this poor patient drudge of an organ 
a conscious unity, and animated by a separate intelligence 
(as some j^hilosophers have held opinions quite as absurd), 
who can express the ire it would feel at the treatment to 
which it is subjected ? crammed to bursting with the me- 
lange of an alderman's enormous meal ; tight as a dram ; 
stuffed like a corj^ulent carpet-bag ; full of turbot, venison, 
salads, wines, and fruits ; not an inch of free space for the 
" animal spirits " to move in ! Yet is it expected to reduce 
the chaos of viands to order, and that, too, with such cruel 
despatch, that long before its task is half done, it finds the 
ruthless gullet pouring down more. How may we imagine 
it looking at its "kitchen," — all the fires put out, — in 
despair ; sometimes fairly getting into the sulks, and dog- 
gedly refusing to have anything more to do with the 
thing; — now, in a fury, ejecting the whole "indigesta 
moles " in a volcanic eruption, — now setting our old friends, 
" the animal sjoirits," briskly to work, under the hard pres- 
sure of necessity. 

But I am not sure that it would not resent quite as much 
the infatuation of the h5q)ochondriac who is hourly dosing 
it, and will never leave well alone ! How would it ex- 



340 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

plocle, in mingled wrath and astonishment, when, coveting 
a hot-buttered roll and a cheering aromatic cup of coffee 
(which it feels itself quite entitled to, and fully capable of 
dealing with), it finds, as it gapes upwards in delighted ex- 
pectation, the remorseless sesoi^hagus, without any "by 
your leave " or " heads below there," sending down a hor- 
rid potion of "black draught," or still worse, castor oil! 
One can imagine the hurry with which it would summon 
its scavengers to clear the streets of the filthy tide, and 
throw wide the pylorus to let the abomination flow on ! 
How would it congratulate itself, in such a case, if homceo- 
pathically treated ! absolutely unable to tell where the 
poor trecillionth of a grain it was enjoined to take such 
care of, was got to ! But sui:>pose the search were vain, it 
would not matter; "Let it lie where it is'' — the stomach 
might say — "an infinitesimal particle in an infinitesimal fol- 
licle will do no harm if it lie there for a hundred years ! 
It is no incommodity to better guests, — it will give no 
offence, poor thing ! I do not grudge it room ! " 

More than threescore species of the genus Dyspepsia, — 
so you doctors tell us, — ■ and the varieties of these infinite ! 
Fifty times as many substances which you doctors send 
down the throat to cure them, while of not a tenth can 
you certainly tell what chemical changes the subtle labo- 
r.itory of the stomach may work ujDon them ! What a "glo- 
rious uncertainty " in Physic, as well as Law ! How little 
less than the cruelty of shooting a bullet of lead into the 
stomach from the outside^ is that of firing a pellet of some 
more subtle mineral into its inside I And yet, you folks 
of the Medicis family (always renowned for poisoning) do 
these things with as little remorse as you would eat the 
wing of a partridge. Nay, you prescribe half a dozen 
things at once, though with every ingredient in the pre- 
scription the uncertainty of the ultimate product of the 



ox THE peacp: principles. 341 

vital chemistry may become still more hopelessly compli- 
cated, and the result more inscrutable. Surely, the way in 
which your "practice" terminates, must be often like that 
of the ludicrous "practice" with the Lancaster gun on 
board the " Arrow " off the Needles lately. The gunners 
fired — but they could trace nothing of the ball in its flight ; 
fired again — still nothing came of it. While they were 
gazing in its presumed direction in stupid wonder, people 
came running in consternation fi'om a totally different quar- 
ter, to implore the inimitable marksmen to cease their sport, 
for that their eccentric fire had been but too effective, only 
in an unexpected direction, — having nearly knocked to 
pieces the lighthouse ! 

Long may you have that greatest proof of a stomach, 
that you know not that you have any! I have long 
ceased, in this matter, to enjoy that "ignorance" which is 
" bliss.'- 

Forgive all this idle badinage on your venerable profes- 
sion, for which none have, after all, a more sincere venera- 
tion than I, wlien intelligently and cautiously practised — 
that IS, as you practise it. 

N. B. As I am about to visit you shortly, I think it is 
as well to add this '•^placebo:'' My kind regards to your 
" Catherine de Medicis." 

Yours faithfully, 

K. E. H. G. 



LETTER LXXIX. 

TO E D , A QUAKER. 



October, 1855. 



Dear Friend, 

Thank you, — or if thee be more pleasing, imagine it 
said, — for the pamphlet on the " Peace Question." I have 

29* 



S42 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

read it, and attentively, but remain where I was. Your 
vieAY^s, in such a world, appear to me not only chimerical, 
but, if practicable, most dangerous, oj^posed to "the spirit" 
of Scripture, which you generally profess to revere, and 
plausible only by a slavish adherence to the " letter " — 
which, strange inconsistency ! you profess generally to 
despise. 

You say the words are express, — " Resist not evil ; " 
" If any man smite thee on the one cheek, turn to him the 
other also." Yes — and the Romanist says the words he 
pleads for transubstantiation are express : " This is my 
body." Pray, why don't you and he act consistently, and 
interpret other passages with the same literality ? For 
example, you see in the immediate vicinity of your abused 
text; — "And if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out and 
cast it from thee ; — if thy hand offend thee, cut it off and 
cast it from thee." How is it that I do not see thee blind 
and maimed, worthy friend ? You will say, " These are 
strong tropical modes of expressing the duty of self-denial 
and self-mortification, when our senses would allure us to 
sin." And, in like manner, say I, the words you abuse, are 
a strong tropical mode of representing the spirit in which 
we should receive affronts ; the forbearance and gentleness 
with which, wherever we can, we should endeavor to disarm 
malice, the patience with which we should rather suffer any 
moderate wrongs than hastily resent them, or any wrongs 
rather than abandon ourselves to a spirit of diabolical 
revenge. But it is no warrant for our becoming suicides, 
by letting miscreants kill us "unresisting, " if they please to 
do so ; nor for quenching, when attacked, that instinct of 
self-preservation, which as manifestly came from God as any 
truth of Revelation, and which, in fact, except in the case 
of a Quaker here and there, always vindicates itself the 
moment life or safety is threatened, by acting, (as all our 



ON THE PEACE PRINCIPLES. 343 

instincts do) independently of our reason. A man is 
assaulted in the dark, suj^pose ; if he has a weapon he strikes 
out, asking no questions " for conscience' sake," or for 
" reason's " sake, or for any other faculty ; any more than 
he would ask, if thrown into the water, whether he is 
permitted to swim ; or if starving, whether the roots and 
wild berries he snatches are precisely the best food for 
his digestion ; or whether Avhen he '* plucks the ears of 
corn," he is not invading the " rights of property." 

You will say, perhaps, that you do not forbid passive 
resistance, of Avhich, indeed, there are singular examples, I 
am well aware, among the " Friends ; " some of them so 
singular as to make the difference between " active " and 
" passive " not a little puzzling to any but a Quaker gram- 
marian. But I know what you mean ; you will say you are 
at liberty to struggle with your adversary with a view to 
disarm him. But this cool calculation in sudden encounters 
is as im^Dossible as to do nothmg. That same instinct which 
prompts to resist, without consulting reason, as little trou- 
bles itself to ask reason hoio it is to resist without doins: 
any injury. If it has a Aveapon it strikes out, right and 
left, without any nice questions as to the precise topograj^hy 
of the blow it may inflict, whether on a vital, or a non-vital 
part ; without asking whether the head of the patient be 
thick enough to resist, if it alight there ; whether it will not 
be best just to dislocate the wrist or shoulder ; or whether 
just so many ounces of weight, and no more, will not be 
sufficient for the purpose. You do not scrupulously calcu- 
late whether you may riot smash the bone and make a 
" comminuted fracture " of the business instead of simple 
dislocation. You cannot tell your ruffian to stand still, that 
you may be pleased to drill or pierce him in a non-vital 
part, and that if he does not behave well, like a patient 
under a surgical operation, you may wound an artery and 



344 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

do him a miscliief, or that, as you mean him no harm in the 
world, but a deal of good, he ought to take it patiently ! 
It is no time for such sang-froid on either side. It would 
as soon occur to us whether it would not be possible to take 
the miscreant, like trout, by tickling him. 

And so, instead of attempting to argue against you, I 
shall try your principle by a case which was put to another 
of the " Friends," and ask you for a decision thereupon ; — 
for that friend declmed it. 

An acquaintance of mine was travelling one day with one 
of your kith and kin, in a railway carriage, and they got on 
this toj^ic. " Well," said my friend, " I will suppose a case. 
You are a settler on the borders of the red man ; have 
got your log hut up, and everything in a fair way of being 
tidy and comfortable. You come home one evening from 
the clearings, with your axe in hand and your rifle on your 
shoulder ; but see with horror that your house is in flames, 
and that a savage is pursuing your shrieking wife, with his 
tomahawk in his right hand and his outstretched left within 
a few feet of her dishevelled hair. There is just a moment 
to bring your rifle to your shoulder and save her. I simply 
want to know whether it would be your duty to fire ? " 

The " Friend " hitched on his seat, first to the right and 
then to the left, as if the shot itself had lodged in him, 
though not in a vital part, and at last said, "I tell thee 
what, friend ; thou hast no right to put such cases." 

Which I conceive was a complete surrender. 

You will say, perhaps, that he was inconsistent, as said 
another " friend of peace, " to whom I put the case. This 
last declared, 7iot that he would 7iot have fired, for he felt 
that it was rather too bold to say that^ but that he ought 
not to fire ! I turned to his wife, who happened to be sit- 
ting by, and asked her how she relished such doctrine. I 
promise you she protested most clamorously. I fancy, that 



ON THE PEACE PRINCIPLES. 345 

dying thus, she would have declared that her husband, and 
not the savage, was her true murderer. 

I will be equally merciful with you as with him. I do 
not ask you whether you icoulcl fire — though the doubt 
that nature miiversally inspires is a shrewd argument 
against you ; for what is it but saying that nature is so apt 
to confute your "principle," that you dare not say when 
you are sure of being able to act on it ? but I ask you 
calmly and conscientiously to say, whether you think you 
ought to fire ? 

However, thou shalt not answer me by letter ; it shall 
be by thine own fireside, Avhen I next visit thee, and thy 
pleasant wife shall be by thy side. And thou shalt look 
into her bright eyes, and say, " I do not think, Martha, I 
ought to save thy life, thou knowest, Martha." I fancy 
she will know nothing of the kind. But I declare, before- 
hand, I will not believe thee till the actual contingency 
shall occur, and I find thee then acting up to thy princi- 
ples. But "nature" will confute thee. Meantime, it is 
easy for thee to say what thou pleasest. 
Believe me. 

Dear friendly friend, 

Thine ever affectionately, 

E. E H. G. 



LETTER LXXX. 

to alfred avest, esq. 

My dear West, 

I have been recently writing to our " Friend " Richard 

D , anent his iJi'tnciples for the encouragement of 

murder and robbery. Till human nature is wholly sub- 



346 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

dued to the Gospel, they are impracticable ; when it is so 
subdued, they will be superfluous; for as no one will 
"wrong," no one need resist. But when that day comes, 
— and come it will, for men may be taught not to murder, 
though they cannot be well taught how to be murdered 
without strong objections thereunto, we may well guess 
the earth will be near its great transformation. Your 
hopes, though you anticipate the speedy reign of universal 
peace, — at least permanent peace among civiUzed nations, 
aie less chimerical, and your projects too; and I cannot 
but wish you God speed. I think you sanguine enough, I 
own ; and I fear are antedating by a few generations or 
BO — perhaps a century or two. 

You think, on the contrary, that the world is even now 
ripe for putting an end to all war by arbitration^ — would 
to God it were! I cannot hope it while nations are so 
contrasted by civilization and barbarism, knowledge and 
ignorance ; while empires dark as midnight in aught else, 
may yet have sufficient military science to make them 
ambitious of conquest, the only distinction nations in such 
stage of their history can attain or appreciate; and be 
powerful enough to be formidable to the world, not en- 
lightened enough to be a blessing to it. This is just the 
condition of Russia at the present moment ; and to con- 
vince the Czar Nicholas of the superior glory, as well as 
felicity, of peace to war, is about as hopeful a business as 
for Baillie Jarvie to induce Rob Roy to let his boys, Rob 
and Hamish, become "puir spinner bodies in Glasgow." 

But certainly good, only good, can come fi-om the dis- 
cussion of the subject. Every one must rejoice in the 
ventilation of your opinions by means of the press, — 
jprovided you do not think it necessary to show as much 
pugnacity for peace as other folks for war, nor give your 
compatriots the notion — as some of you do — that you 



ON THE PEACE PRINCIPLES. 347 

are the most bellicose people in the nation. Guarding 
against that, your efforts, — your speechifyings, your tracts, 
cannot but do good; any thing that Avill make the nations 
reflect on the absurdities, atrocities, and (what they are 
apt to think much more of) the expenses of war, is a gain. 

Certainly war is just as much a mark of the harharis^n 
of nations tciken collectively^ as the princi23le and j^ractice 
of jDrivate war are of the barbarism of any one nation, 
such a period, of course, is found in the history of every 
savage nation. The maxim then is, " every 'inan his own 
soldier'''* — to fight his own battles and right his own 
wrongs; and as long as that continues, the people, of 
course, are savages. Is there any reason why we should 
not afiirm the same of a family of nations, as long as they 
exhibit the same state of things? In the case of a single 
nation, civilization puts an end to the liberty of private 
Avar, as it3 very first, its initial achievement, and remits 
the arbitration of private quarrels to impartial judges. 
When nations, collectively, are as civilized in this respect 
as any one of those which deserve to be called so, the 
same will be done in relation to war ; and till civilization 
has discovered the means of doing it, they must be con • 
tent, whatever their individual eminence in science or in 
art, to be accounted — barbarians ! 

" But quis custodiet ipsos custodes ? " Who are to be 
the judges, when each nation acknowledges no superior, 
and the final arbiter is found still in — force ? No doubt, 
at present^ the thing is impossible; but precisely the same 
difiiculty must have been once felt in the case of any 
single nation that has been reclaimed from barbarism at 
all. When law asserted its supremacy, and put an end to 
f)rivate feuds, who can doubt the ovitcry made at first by 
many a " bullet-headed, iron-fisted old baron," who chafed 
at the limitation of his rights, and clamored for the priv- 



348 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

ileges of his petty local jurisdiction ? No doubt he would 
not believe that there could be, in the universe, any im- 
partial umpire of his rights, but himself. Nevertheless, lie 
became convinced in time that it was possible to deny 
him the felicity of his private brawls, and extinguish his 
absolute independence, without perilling his interests, or 
rather with great advantage to their security. So will it 
be with the nations, when they have learned to appreciate 
the blessings of the higher international cimlization. 

They will say, when any, who belong to their voluntary 
confederacy, propose to extemporize a little bit of " Donny- 
brook Fair," anywhere or on any pretence, " It cannot be 
allowed ; we are quite ready to consider your differences, 
or to see you considering them in a peaceful way; — but 
we shall take the mere noise of a ' shindy ' as a casus belli y 
and we, gentlemen, are five to one; — so put up your 
swords; cedant arma togoe^ They would say, as Mac- 
gregor to Rashleigh and Francis Osbaldistone, when those 
hot-blooded young gentlemen seemed inclined to renew 
the duel in which he had interrupted them : — " By the 
heavens above me, I will cleave to the brisket the first 
man that mints anither stroke ! " 

Meantime, ye political economists ! what a saving to the 
nations would even such a measure be. The huge arma- 
ments by which jealous nations now eternally watch each 
other, might be disbanded for ever; for a very small, 
though exquisitely disciplined and accoutred contingent 
from each of these nations, would make together a resist- 
less army when embattled against any one refractory 
member. The expense of such a moderate police of the 
nations would be a mere bagatelle. 

This, probably, will be the first way in which the com- 
munity of civilized nations, entering into a voluntary com- 
pact, will attempt to realize your projects; that is, by 



ON THE PEACE PRINCIPLES. 349 

preliminarily knocking him on the head, whether right or 
wrong in his claims, who begins by defying the police of 
nations, and then giving due consideration to the differ- 
ences which led to the row, in a congress of negotiators. 

I can imagine — glorious day for the world, should it 
ever dawn upon it — when civilized nations joyfully giving 
in, one by one, their adhesion to the principles of this 
higher international civilization, shall proceed one step 
further, and solemnly inaugurate officers and functionaries, 
whose sole business in life shall be to carry them into 
effect. Methinks I see, in the course of ages, a nobler than 
the old Amphictyonic Council, representing the fraternity 
of civilized nations, consulting for the good, not of one 
people, but of many, and deciding, by common consent, 
not the petty differences between man and man, but be- 
tween vast communities ; a council consisting of function- 
aries, not, as we sometimes see now, extempora,neously 
cliosen, but consecrated for life, like our OAvn judges, to 
the study and practice of international law; segregated 
from every other function; and instructed to put off, as 
far as may be, the feelings of patriotism itself, and to 
assume the cosmopolite ! Methinks it would be worth 
while to assign these judges of the nations a separate 
abode, — which, belonging to no nation, should be felt to 
be sacred to all. Surely none would grudge them the most 
beautiful island ever discovered in the recesses of the 
ocean, so long as they performed their office Avell; and 
how worthy of each nation to consecrate to such an office 
wlioever was most conspicuous in it for probity and 
wisdom ! What veneration would attach to this cosmop- 
olite tribunal ! What honor, to belong to this Sacred 
College of humanity — this Chancery of the Universe ! 

Nor is it visionary to imagine the esiwit de corps of this 
sublime "College" such, that it would in a little time defy 

30 



350 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

all susj^icion of its members being warped by the petty in- 
fluences oi private patriotism; just as we find may be the 
case with the judges of a particular nation. Surely, if our 
judicial functionaries have so clothed themselves with the 
spirit of honor, that no one has for ages suspected them of 
corruption, it may well be believed that this highest court 
would aspire to render itself more aAvfuUy venerable, and 
pride itself in keeping every particle of its ermine spotless 
as the snow. 

And even if, in the course of a century or so, they made 
some wrong decisions, it could hardly be in any very im - 
portant or flagrant cases ; and as to the rest, — if they gave 
some rocky islet, which might support three families and 
twice as many cows, or grow with thrifty management five 
bushels of potatoes, to France when it ought to go to Eng- 
land ; or drew the boundary line of a disputed territory on 
this side of a barren mountain-rancce when it ou2:ht to be 
on the very ridge thereof, I suppose it would be of little 
consequence compared with the infinite miseries which 
have sprung from military arbitration of the like petty 
claims ; not to say that this too is attended with just as 
great probability, nay, far greater, of a wrong decision. 

It must be confessed that the i:>retexts which have led 
to wars, and the folly with which they have been prose • 
cuted, are not ill satirized in a fable I have somewhere met 
with. 

A certain king, it is said, sent to another king, saying — 

" Send me a blue pig with a black tail, or else ." The 

other, in high dudgeon, replied — "I have not got one, and 

if I had ," on which weighty cause they went to war 

for many years. After a satiety of glories aud miseries, 
they bethouglit them that it would be well to consult about 
the preliminaries of j^cace ; but then a di]ilomatic explana- 
tion Avas first needed of the expressions which liad formed 



ON THE PEACE PRINCIPLES. 351 

the ground of quarrel. ""What could you mean," said the 
second king, " by saying, ' Send me a blue pig with a black 

tall, or else ? ' " " Why," said the other, " I meant — 

or of some other color. But," retorted he, " what could you 

mean by saying, ' I have not got one, and if I had ? ' " 

" Why, of course, if I had, I should have sent it ; " — an 
explanation which was i^i'onounced very satisfactory, and 
peace concluded accordingly. 

But my i^roposed High Court of Equity for the world — 
my " Amjohictyonic Council " of the nations, is a di'eam, 
one may say. It is so for the j)resent ; — but it may come 
true for all that. 

Meantime, — though it seems a very paradoxical remedy, 
I am not sure but the best immediate security against war 
is to increase to the very utmost its destructiveness. I, 
really think it would be worth while for every civilized 
government to offer the most liberal rewards for every not- 
able improvement in the art of wholesale butchery. When 
war shall be to both parties as fital as duels fought 
across a table, or as the fight between the Kilkenny cats, 
who " ate each other up all but the tail ; " when ships shall 
reciprocally blow each other into the air the moment they 
come within sight of each other across the horizon, and 
armies like Gorgons, are too terrible to be faced ; when 
each great commander, at once gloriously victorious and 
ignominiously defeated, may imitate Cassar's laconic de- 
spatch, and say, "Vidi — et victus vici — ," we shall hear 
of war no more. The increasing destructiveness of war, 
combined with the determination of the " big boys " in the 
great school of nations to make every " row," under any 
pretence, a casus belli — a reason for the immediate and 
general discharge of their preternatural ordnance at the 
offenders, would positively effect pretty much the same 
thing as our Amphictyonic Council. 



352 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

God grant that wars may " soon cease ; " — and that they 
sooner may, may they be made more dreadful, till every 
popgun be even as a revolver, and every revolver as a 
thunderbolt I 

Ever yours, 

E. E. H. G. 



LETTER LXXXI. 

TO THE KEV. CHARLES ELLIS, B. D. 

October, 1854. 
My DEAR Friend, 

I have read the little essay on the " Immortality of the 
Soul," as deduced from the light of nature. It contains 
nothing but the usual arguments ; nor does the mode of 
stating them (so far as I can see) add to their force, per- 
haps I ought rather to say, diminish their feebleness ; — for 
whatever the presumptions founded on certain facts, — 
especially the apparent absurdity of man's having faculties 
so disproportionate to the condition of an ephemeron, I 
hold that absolute conclusiveness in our reasoning on 
this subject is beyond us. It is true that ^/'man be merely 
mortal, his whole nature, as far as we can conjecture, seems 
to be "made in vain;" and thus the Theist, at least, is jus- 
tified in deducing a strong probability of a future state. 
But neither this, nor any of the other arguments usually 
urged to prove it, ever made me feel more than the proba- 
bility of the conclusion ; and I believe a fair examination of 
the wavering decisions of the best heathen j^hilosophers 
(the truest test we can appeal to — for in their case Ave 
cannot suspect, as in that of a modern, that they were un- 
consciously indebted to revelation) will clearly prove to 
any candid reader, that they never arrived at anything bet- 



im:mortality. 353 

ter than a faltering hope. Nothing, I believe, but revela- 
tion can assure us of a future state ; it is the Gospel alone 
which can be said to have " brought life and immortality to 
light," out of the haze of philosophical speculation and the 
crepusGulum of the Jewish disiDensation. 

Shall I confess to you that one of the strongest proofs of 
a future state (though it does not strictly touch the ques- 
tion of immortality) derived from the light of nature — 
(light of nature ! perhaps we ought, if we would be exact, 
to call it the darkness of nature), is one that, logically, it is 
difficult to make much use of with a sturdy gainsayer : — 
just as with one who says he is without a sense of right 
and wrong, (though, by the way, you may think the fellow 
lies, and is a rascal,) ethical argument is impossible. Pray 
take care how you thread your way through the parenthe- 
ses above, — for they lie uncommonly thick ; I jn-otest I 
hardly know where I am myself. — On looking back half a 
mile, I see I was saying that one of the strongest proofs of 
a future state was one that we cannot insist on with a gain- 
sayer. — What I refer to is the feeling^ generally growing 
stronger, as men apjDroach death, that there is a future state. 
It has, too, all the criteria, by which we measure the force 
of an argument from consent. It has been acknowledged 
by an immense majority of all mankind; — and especially 
by the most elevated and comprehensive intellects ; it has 
been the hope and the solace of the good ; it has been the 
Gorgon of the eminently wicked. As to the former, at Se 
(3e.XTL(TTaL {j/vKal ixavTCvovrai ravra ovrcos ^X^'-^' ^^ Plato says : 
The good presage immortality ; not that that is quite the 
right word for the term ixavrevovTaL, for which we have not 
an exact equivalent in English ; but it means they have a 
" divine presentiment " of immortality. As to the wicked, 
— why, all history, proverbs, fiction, the drama, are full of 
their presentiments. 

30* 



354 tiip: greyson letters. 

I have said that it is not a toi^ic easily urged on a sturdy 
gainsayer, who with a steady countenance can say that he 
is unconscious of any such feeling ; but it is of little conse- 
quence; first, because there are few such gainsayers, 
and always will be if we may trust the nearly unanimous 
voice of history. Secondly, because one is j^retty sure the 
scamps do feel it in their secret soul, and if they do not, (as 
perhaps is the case, in their youth or their cups,) will in old 
age and on a death bed. There are few things more beau- 
tiful in Plato than the perfectly natural manner in which 
the placid Cephalus, in the enjoyment of a green old age, 
speaks on this subject. It is, I take it, an echo of an all 
but universal feeling — a witness to the constitution of hu- 
manity. When Socrates had asked him whether his con- 
tentment amidst the infirmities of age, and his freedom 
from its customary peevishness, might not be attributed by 
many to his wealth, which had spared him the vexations of 
l^overty, — " for the rich have many consolations," — Ce- 
phalus answers him that no doubt " there is something in 
that; but not so much as is commonly supj^osed;" and 
when further asked what he imagines the chief use of riches, 
replies that he deems it one very little thought of by most 
persons, namely, that of making restitution for any of the 
wrongs done in one's past life ; for " be assured, Socrates," 
says he, " that when a man thinks he is going to die, he is 
filled with fear about things that never entered his head 
before. Those tales concerning a future state, which tell 
us that the man who has been unjust here must be pun- 
ished hereafter, tend, much as he once laughed at them, to 
disturb his soul at such a moment ; — and the man, either 
through the infirmities of age, or being now as it were, in 
closer proximity to the unseen, views the future more at- 
tentively, consequently becomes full of suspicion and dread, 
and considers and reflects whether he has in anything done 



IMMORTALITY. 355 

any one a wrong ; and he who detects in his own life much 
of iniquity, resembling children startmg in their sleep, is 

full of terror In conformity with this, I deem the 

possession of riches chiefly valuable as liberating 

ns from the temptation of cheating or deceiving against 
our will, or departing hence in dread, because we owe 
either sacrifice to God or money to man." 

To be sure, if the old gentleman attached any idea of 
raerit to such simple acts of righting wrong, his theology, 
as might be expected from a heathen, was not altogether 
" evangelical ; " but the fact he bears witness to, — the in- 
tense convictions of a future state, which are apt to beset 
the mind as it nears the brink of the grave, is most signifi- 
cant, and one is ready to say, " There spoke human nature." 

Of such a feeling — so general — I cannot but make much, 
though it may be little available with a captious disputant ; 
and, in truth, in the case of any geiieral feeling, even though 
reason had less to say for it than she has, it is imj^ossible 
not to susj^ect that we are listening to an oracle, which 
issues from a deeper fountain than mere logic can fully 
explore. 

For what else, after all, can we infer from the prevalence, 
not to say universality, of such feelings, but that human na- 
ture is so co7istituted that it cannot but so feel ? 

Hence, at all events, we may conclude, even if the feeling 
be a delusion, that it is in vain to argue against it ; and that 
it is true wisdom, if we are to "follow nature," and not 
spend life in vain attemjDts to stifle her, to act accordingly. 
We may say to a man who denies or doubts of a " future 
state " much as we may say to the atheist. To the latter it 
may be said : Well, supposing there is no God, still if we 
are to trust at all to induction from the phenomena of all 
humanity in all ages and nations, mankind will believe there 
is one : therefore, if wise, you will cease to argue against it ; 



356 THE GREYSON LETTEltS. 

for you will only lose your breath. If there bo no God, 
man has somehow, it seems, been so constituted that he can- 
not but arrive at the oj^posite conviction. — The like may 
be said to those adventurous speculators who assure us that 
all notions of moral differences — of a right and a wrong — 
are a delusion. If we can trust the philosophy of induction 
at all, as to what men will generally feel and think, from 
what they have generally felt and thought, such philoso- 
phers had better " save their breath to cool their porridge." 
In short, much the same may be said in reply to any other 
paradox diametrically opposed to convictions, which, right 
or wrong, are founded in the constitution of our nature, and 
which, if men were wise, would bring many a long-winded 
dispute to a summary termination. Whether they arrive 
at truth or error, men have nothing else from which to phi- 
losophize than the constitution of their minds and faculties, 
and you may as well " bay the moon " as strive to alter the 
convictions normally founded on them. If wrong, the error 
arises from the constitution of humanity, and must still be 
supposed a truth. Hence the practical absurdity of all rea- 
soning against the convictions of a material world ; or to 
prove that our primary intuitions are all false. If they are, 
philosoj^hy cannot mend them. 

Finally, therefore, from the all but universal feeling that 
there is a future state, I quite think men are constituted 
thus to feel, and consequently it is at least waste time to 
argue against it ; and then as to the fact whether there he 
one, since I do not believe that God who so constituted us 
is a liar^ I at least believe that there is one. But if you 
want clear proof I know of no other way than proving 
Christianity, and sending hopeful, but dubious, Nature to 

the school of Revelation. 

Yours, 

E. E. H. G. 



ON COMING TO THE USE OF SPECTACLES. 357 

LETTER LXXXII. 

TO THE SAME. 
^ Nov. 1854. 

My dear 1kie]st), 

I have just come to the dignity of " spectacles," and am 
writing with them for the first time. I little thought, a 
few years ago, Avhen I used to read with such ease the 
smallest print, that I should ever feel the want of these sup- 
plementary eyes ; but finding, for some time, that my book 
was gradually receding from me inch by inch, I began to 
fear that I should soon have to fix it to the end of a stick, if 
I went on much longer ; or that it would get away from me 
altogether. The fact is, the lens has lost a little of its con- 
vexity, and to spectacles of moderate power I have there- 
fore reluctantly come. 

On this I am induced to make this profound reflection : 
How easily might the comfort of life be marred by the mal- 
construction of a single sense ; and what a 2:)lague would life 
itself be if all of them were mal-constructed together ! If, 
for example, such pranks were played with us, as (were 
Atheism true) we might expect ; if w^e w^ere the victims of 
'indefinite monstrosity — such lusus natiLrce as to prove that 
nature was in truth more fond of " play " than " work ; " if 
we found, as we well might, a ridiculous failure in her 
" nisus " — her " endeavor " — as our Atheists, with con- 
tradictory metaphor, call her blind work (faith ! she would 
need spectacles worse than I do), what a predicament we 
should all be in ! As to the rubbish, that unintelligent 
" Law," according to some, — " Chance," according to 
others, (it does not matter a pin which, both being blind as 
newborn kittens,) has unconsciously tumbled things into the 
only possible " conditions of existence," so that if things 
were othervme^ things could not go on, — why it is rubbish ; 



358 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

for even if we could conceive exquisite order and adaptation 
the result of blind agency, it is still utterly false, so far as 
we can judge, to say that the conditions of our loell-belng 
are also the conditions of our being. Man might have been 
an indefinitely different and very miserable creature, and 
yet have existed. If any such beings, on such an hypoth- 
esis, could have appeared at all, they might have been very 
execrable monsters — varieties of Caliban, — and yet have 
lived. The so-called " lusus " we do now and then see, 
might have been strangely multiplied and diversified, and 
yet the poor beast, Man, have groped, and crawled, and 
hobbled, and blundered through his threescore years and 
ten to a most welcome grave. Half mankind might have 
had the eyes of bats or owls, and the other half the feet of 
oxen or the paws of kangaroos, or the locomotive powers 
of the sloth, or the legs of a crane ; and a great many of 
them might have been without hands or feet at all, — as 
some few are. Nay, for aught we know, intelligences, 
essentially like ours, might have been imprisoned under a 
donkey's hide or a lobster's shell; in which last case, as 
Sydney Smith said, " It is much to be feared that the mon- 
keys would have made lobster sauce of us." 

In this matter of eyes, — how easily might the Great 
Optician who constructed them (or the ?^o optician " Chance," 
if it had constructed any eyes at all, could have done it too) 
have plagued us with such convexity of the organ, that, like 
the Stanhope lens, it would have revealed to us only what 
was brought into contact with it, and then in such unlucky 
perfection, as to make our own deformity as hideous as the 
Brobdingnagians to the microscopic eye of Gulliver ; or, on 
the other hand, given us such a distant focus, that we should 
be obliged to recede half a mile in order to read the hour 
by the parish clock. 

It is melancholy to think that we never duly value our 



ON COMING TO THE USE OF SPECTACLES. 359 

blessings till they are impaired or taken from us. " Anotlior 
profound remark," you will say. Yet why is it trivial? 
only because we are a set of beasts. It loould be profound 
to an angel — so profound, that he would regard it as incon- 
ceivable and incredible ! Here have I been served by these 
good servants, my eyes, for forty years, and at last know 
their true value only — by looking through my spectacles ! 
I have often used them unmercifully — have compelled them 
to play an everlasting game of focus-shiftmg and pupil- 
changing — enlarging and contracting — compressing and 
expanding — bobbing about with the axis and fiddling with 
the iris, according to the distance of objects and the degree 
of light. I have made them stare at a small '^riwt half 
through the night, when they have declared that it is time 
they should draw their curtains and get a little nap; and 
the poor drudges have never so much as winked rebellion 
till now ! I never felt how precious they were before. 

And ah! must we not confess to the same sort of 
thoughtless ingratitude in relation to yet higher blessings ? 
Amidst " spiritual light," in the blaze of knowledge, and 
the enjoyment of freedom, how little do we think of the 
w^ords of Christ to His disciples, — true of us as of them, — 
" Blessed are your eyes for they see, and your ears for they 
hear, the things which kings and prophets waited to see 
and hear," but neither saw nor heard. How differently 
should we feel, if we had been cast on times of ignorance 
and persecution ; if, before we dared to peep into the tat- 
tered fragment of a Bible deposited in the most secret 
crypt we could find for it, we were forced to draw bar and 
bolt of our chamber door, not, as our Saviour said (or not 
for that only), that we might "be alone with God," but 
that ^\'e might be alone from man ; — and then, carefully 
shading the treacherous taj^er, and trembling at every 
sound, as if we were doing a guilty thing, drag from its 



360 THE GREY SON LETTERS. 

hiding-place the Book of God, filch, as it were, in secret, 
the promises of eternal life, and, with the semblance of 
guilt and shame, steal into heaven ! — or if, Uke many of 
our fore-fathers, we were glad to meet for worship by the 
pale moon or the safer star-light ; or, safer still, on a stormy 
night in some mountain glen, or by the woodside or in the 
forest glade ; and so, amidst the desolations of the present 
life, listen with a tremulous joy to the promises of a better. 
I fancy, in such cases, we should more truly estimate the 
knowledge and freedom we possess. 

But it is the same with everything ; man is least grateful 
for all that is most precious, for the very reason that ought 
to endear it most, — because it is most common. What so 
inestimable as light, air, and water ? They fetch no price 
in the market ; no one will give anything for them ; for 
they can be had for nothing. God has given them without 
measure ; but ought they, from their very cheapness, to be 
received without even the " peppercorn rent " of grateful 
thought and love? Ah! if it were possible for human 
tyranny, to do as it has so often done with mental light, 
with knowledge, with freedom, — to sequester the sun- 
beams, — to inclose to individual uses the *' fields of air " — 
to monopolize and dole out at famine price stream and 
fountain, — how well should we understand what was meant 
by such words — " Blessed are your eyes, for they see the 
light of day ; and your ears, for they hear the sounds of 
whispering winds and falling waters ! " 

How cautious should we be, lest our ingratitude in higher 
matters should bring, as it easily may, its own punishment ; 
lest the very cheapness of our boasted immunities should 
lead us not only to undervalue, but, as a consequence, to 
neglect them. It is to be feared that God and holy angels, as 
they see us walking to heaven in the bright and peaceful 
sunshine, may judge us, for that very reason, encompassed 



ON COMING TO THE USE OF SPECTACLES. 361 

with greater perils than those who found their way thither 
under cloud and tempest. The storms of affliction made 
our fathers gird that mantle about them which the summer 
sun may entice us to throw aside. In the Valley of the 
Shadow of Death and in Vanity Fair, the Christian of 
honest John Bunyan " played the man : " it was when he 
trod the " drowsy enchanted ground " that he felt the 
access of that fatal lethargy. Sad to think that many a 
poor ignoramus may have made better use of a tattered 
leaf or two of the Bible, which, perchance, he could hardly 
spell, than we who can have it not only in every house, but 
in our memories ; and may more securely have groped his 
way to heaven by the by-paths of dungeon and martyrdom, 
than we to whom the portals of God's temple stand invit- 
ingly open day and night. 

Well really, after making such reflections, I begin to 
think my spectacles are becoming more useful to me than 
my eyes were ; and that I see things more clearly than 
before, as well with the mental as with the bodily vision. 
If so, I shall find them useful indeed, and shall wish, for all 
my friends, similar infirmities to mine ; nay, even stark 
blindness shall be welcome, if, in the words of Milton. 

. ^ . . " celestial light 

Shine inward, and the mind through all her powers 

Irradiate.'* 

Yours very truly, 



E. E. II. G. 



31 



362 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

LETTER LXXXIII. 

TO 

London. 

My dear Fkiend, 

After the hints you gave me, I coukl have no doubt about 
the guilt of the young knave, and, taking liim into my 
study, roundly taxed him with it. He as roundly denied; 
but it was of no use, for as fast as the false tongue vociferatee\ 
innocence, the more truthful eye gave the lie to it. I there- 
fore calmly stuck to my text, urged proofs, and from proofs 
proceeded to expostulations, and those tender topics of 
appeal which, in for o conscientice^ avail more than the most 
subtle argumentations of lawyers. I told him of the ruin 
he was bringing on himself, the anguish he was causing his 
mother, till at length the boisterous tongue became silent, 
and the sympathetic eyes, that had saved him from being 
wholly lost, began to drop tears over the wicked tongue's 
prevarications. The tongue itself at last faltered out (it 
was a good deal less glib than before) its confessions. I 
hope he is not gone beyond recovery. I account none such 
so long as there is this schism in the " body corporate ; " 
so long as conscience can get one organ fairly to contradict 
another ; when ruddy shame sits on the cheeks, and lurking 
truth looks out from the eyes, however the tongue may 
bluster. The saddest of all spectacles is when Truth can 
get no organ to plead her cause ; Avhen the hardened brow 
and the unflinching eye, as well as the tongue, are in a league 
against her. Then, indeed, I give all up for lost. When 
Truth looks out no longer from the eye, Avhen the light is 
darkened and the curtains drawn in that windoAV of the 
soul, I know she lies dead, and is corrupting within. 

It is curious to see with how much more difiiculty the 
eye can be utterly corrupted than the tongue. And how. 



THE EYE AND THE TONGUE. 863 

wlien the latter is asseverating falsehood, with oath upon 
oath (impudent knave !) to make you believe it, the eye 
often still calmly does homage to truth, and looks, " yes, 
yes, yes," as fast as the other says '• no, no, no." 

" Betwixt nose and eyes a strange contest arose," says 
Cowper, in his amusing little lawsuit resj)ecting the " Spec- 
tacles." " It is a far more important and less humorous 
" cause " that is often pleading between the tongue and 
the eye. If they had a separate consciousness, how mad 
would the tongue be that the eye is apt to be such a blab 
and tell-tale, and so inopportunely turns king's evidence ! 
" What need had you to put in your oar and spoil all ? " 
one might imagine it saying : " why could you not be 
quiet ? " 

Wherever the seat of the soul is, I am confident it lies 
much nearer to the eye than to the tongue. This organ, 
as Talleyrand wittily but perversely said, (though he was 
not the first who said it,) was given man to conceal his 
thoughts ; but that ' cannot be said of the eye. How the 
soul looks out from it ! Even when the tongue is honest, 
it cannot utter truth and feeling half so well as the eye ; 
it is a poor, imperfect, faltering, blundering organ in com- 
parison. But in the eye the soul beams and kindles, and 
lightens and flashes the Truth in that light which is Truth's 
most glorious emblem. 

But to return to the poor lad, who is, metaphorically, 
just now " in sackcloth and ashes." Take him again, and 
try him this once ; I say not for his sake only, or for his 
mother's, or for mine ; but for His whose loving memory is 
more powerful with you than all these. Remember " the 
seventy-times seven," and the text about " saving a soul 
from death and covering a multitude of sins," — and that 
other about " the thousand talents," and that again about 
" the merciful gardener " who pleaded " for the barren fig- 



364 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

tree " — " Let it iilone this year also ; " — and every other 
of the many hundred texts which may well arm us with 
love and patience, if we listen to them. Take him to the 
New Testament, instead of sending him to prison, and to 
the Saviour instead of to the magistrate ; and I will hope 
you will never repent it ; nay, whatever betide, I am per- 
fectly sure you never will. 

E. E. H. G. 

P. S. I have been amusmg myself with a couple of visits 
to the Zoological Gardens in Regent's Park : surely the 
most entertaining place, — next perhaps to the Museum, — 
of all that this wonderful city invites us to inspect. I cannot 
be got, as many do, to pity the brutes in this their artificial 
condition. They pay a certain penalty, just as man does, 
for their quasi civilization. They give u]^, it is true, that 
trifle, their liberty ; I mean it is taken from them. Well, 
at all events, they cannot blame themselves for the loss; 
and if they are but philosophical beasts, — and surely they 
have time and leisure enough for meditation, — they must 
weigh their counterbalancing advantages. Here is the lion, 
for example, feasting away daily in his West End den on 
excellent horse-flesh, without the trouble of hunting and 
killing. Let him poise, if wise, the advantages of his so- 
called prison against the starving freedom — the precarious 
pot-luck of his old cave, when his fasts Avere often, I dare 
say, inconveniently long, and he and his young cubs often 
never tasted butcher's meat more than once a week. As 
to the elephant, does he not live in a house good enough 
for a ten pound householder, and levy tithes of cakes, buns, 
and biscuits, from half the youth of the metropolis ? The 
Polar bear, it is true, is more to be pitied, this warm " Yule;" 
he doubtless feels this Christmas that our climate is too 
sultry, and fancies the cold bath in which he laves to be 



" REFORMATORIES." 365 

always tepid. Our iiortli-easters, at wliich we shiver, are 
a mere sirocco to him, and he yearns for those times whenj. 
with the glass far below zero, he used to lie out on the ice- 
bergs by night, and bask alfresco in the cool beams of the 
Aurora Borealis. or the genial rays of liis cousin — Ursa 
major. 



LETTER LXXXIV. 

TO THE EEV. C. ELLIS. 

Dec. 18-J4. 
My dear Feiend, 

Have you ever been to one of the " Reformatories for 
Juvenile Criminals" recently established? If you have 
not, I would advise you to do so. I had paid some atten- 
tion to the theory of them, and had watched with deep 
interest the progress, of public opinion on the subject, but 
never saw the inmates of a Reformatory till last Sunday. 
I had been requested by a friend to " say a few words " in 
the CA^ening to the poor little wretches, and truly, as Sam 
Slick says, " it was a sight to behold ! '* There were about 
thirty seated round a long deal table, and I must say they 
behaved very well. They seemed quite under the com- 
mand of their master, and had evidently been drilled to 
their devotional exercises with commendable precision. 
But such faces ! such a variety of " villainous low forehead!" 
such furtive glances ! such airs of put-on goodness and de- 
mure cunning ! such sharj) tAvinkling eyes, as they looked 
up at me ! It reminded me of nothing so much as the 
devil looking out of his up-stairs Avindows. 

I inquired a little into the mode of government in this 
little republic of juvenile thieves and vagabonds. I found, 
somewhat to my surprise, that they were under no very 
strict surveillance. To them "stonewalls" did 7iot a 

31* 



366 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

"prison make." They "were to conform to certain rules 
and be in at certain hours; but they were not restricted to 
any bounds of space , and if they chose to abscond from 
the protection and escape the discii^line of the "school," 
nothing, as far as I could learn, prevented them. They 
might ramble about the country, and if they chose, might, 
at any moment, resume their old vagabond life and knavish 
ways, and qualify themselves for being sent to "prison." 
I know not whether the plan be similar in the other Kefor- 
matories; and, from some escapades of these young gentle- 
men which have been told me, I should rather doubt the 
Avisdom of it. The liberty Indulged may be, as the school- 
master said, " an appeal to theii moral sense ; " but I am 
afraid the said "moral sense" would often fail to resj^ond. 
It also afforded, he sagely remarked, a proof that they 
valued the refuge assigned them; it does so certainly as 
long as they continue in it. It enabled them, he further 
argued, to show that they acted not from coercion^ but 
from a sense of proj^riety — at least from a prudential 
feeling ; which is again true so long as they comply with 
the rules of the Reformatory, and duly make their aj^pear- 
ance without a constable at their heels. Again ; their non- 
abuse of these privileges showed, as the Reformatory Solon 
remarked, that they are not destitute of " moral feeling," — 
which is also true as long as they do not abuse them. Last- 
ly, and above all, say the advocates of such a jDlan, it 
allows the young criminals to converse with temptations — 
temptations which they must meet wath when they return 
to the world. But whether such converse is likely to be 
improving to such persons is a question. To prevent their 
parleying with Madam Vice at all, for a time, would seem 
to be the wiser policy. Plowever, if the object be to pro- 
vide them with temptations, there is certainly no lack of 
that commodity in the neighborhood of the huge town, in 



" REf OPwMATORIES," 367 

the dejDraved and crowded suburbs of which this young 
colony of incij^ient angels is located. "They may thus 
coj^e with temptations, sir," said the philanthropic school 
master, " which we can know they are capable of doing only 
by experiencey Very true, when they do cope with them. 
But for all that, I should not think it desirable to try an 
infant virtue, just reclaimed from theft and knavery, Avith 
too many of those tests. If ordinary boys, however care- 
fully nurtured, are, at school, strictly kept within bounds ; 
if it would be deemed dangerous and foolish to let them, 
unattended by ushers and masters, have the run of the 
whole neighborhood, I cannot see that it is altogether wise 
to allow of such license to these less hopeful " hopefuls." 
Be so kind as to inquire for me how it is with the Refor- 
matory near you ; and if so, what is the experience of those 
who have the management of it. One of the things against 
which the philanthropy of the day has to guard is a too 
sanguine estimate of the degree in which criminals are still 
under the control of ordinary motives, and capable of ap- 
preciating, rather than abusing, the lenity which to a 
nature unfamiliar with crime is far more potent than 
severity. 

One of the things that much struck me was the mode in 
which my congregation of young imj^s was assembled. 
The Reformatory is situated in a wild and lonely spot, 
about three miles and a half from the heart of the neisfh- 
boring town ; it stands in the midst of retired fields, and 
the access to it is by some deej) and miry lanes. It was a 
pitch-dark November evening, and when I got there no 
soul was to be seen in the desolate Reformatory, except the 
Master and a friend of his who occasionally came up on a 
Sunday evening, on the same charitable errand which had 
brought me thither. I wondered whence my flock were to 
come, and how they were to be gathered together. I was 



3G8 THE GREYSON LETT FES. 

not long in suspense. The master took down a large horn, 
and going to the door, blew two or three loud blasts there- 
on, and in about ten minutes, in the young scaj^egraces 
came, tumbling in from the lanes and adjoining fields. It 
reminded me of nothing so much as Wamba and Gurth 
calling their herd of swine together ; but I fear it teas the 
" 5^o^;^e," loith the " demls " in them I It was a most pain- 
ful, as well as pleasing, spectacle. 

It was 23leasing to think of the good that might be done 
by this institution : that it insured to these young souls a 
pause at least in their career of guilt and sorrow — an 
asylum from some of their worst temptations — a break- 
water between them and the raging sea without. On the 
other hand, it was painful, inexpressibly painful, to see the 
vivid traces of wrong-doing already stamped on their young 
features — the scars already left of the conflicts with evil in 
which, all young as they were, they had been engaged, and, 
alas! in which they had been worsted; and above all to think, 
that many of them would, in all iDrobability, after this lit- 
tle lull of passion, be again caught by the tempest of temp- 
tation, and be wrecked at last ; that after being arrested in 
their fall, as it were, on a ledge of rock, they Avould roll 
over into the abyss ! Most j^ainful also was it to reflect 
that many of these youthful criminalshad probably never had 
a chance of being otherwise ! How many among them had 
been the children of vice, and consequently heirs of shame ! 
How many of them, cast on the world by their abandoned 
parents, who had all the passions of beasts and none of 
their kindlier instincts ! Some, perhaps, had been early 
orphans, and falling into hard or cunning hands, had had a 
better nature early perverted to evil. Ah ! if those who 
brought these poor hapless ones into the world, could have 
been the invisible spectators of their wrongs, it would have 
been enough to poison heaven itself to them. Some per- 



"REFORMATORIES." 369 

liaps there were — most miserable of all — who had been 
kindly and tenderly nurtured, — had been in their dawn 
of life the objects of lavish cares and flattering hopes, — 
of a ]nother's morning and evening j^rayers ; and at last of 
agonizing doubt and terror, heart-rending sighs and tears, 
as the enticements of evil companions and the strength of 
youthful passions gradually fixmiliarized them with sin — 
vice — crime, — until the very images of home, its love, 
and its sanctities, the strongest ties that bind the youthful 
soul to virtue, had faded from the memory, and with them, 
for the present, the hopes of heaven ! Yet not in vain may 
tlie poor parents have wej)t and prayed; for hoAV often 
have the wanderers returned after long years of salutary 
sorrow — wise at last; perhaps long after those whose fond 
hearts they have tried and broken, have been safely housed 
in heaven. " Hope on still," one would say to such, " for 
not only is 'hope the only tie that keeps the heart from 
breaking ; ' but, you know, that you are expressly assured 
that in some way, though unknown, every act of ' faithful 
love ' and ' loving faith ' shall be recompensed a thousand 
fold." In thousands of cases besides that so inimitably 
described by Him who came so far to seek the lost, has the 
"prodigal" been reclaimed by that very school of vice and 
suffering Avhich he chose, and which j^romised to qualify 
him only for j^erdition. 

Yet, yet, in spite of all such mitigations — what a world 
it is ! When shall we cope with its mysteries of sorrow ? — 
But it will not do to go on thus. To you and to me, it 
seems a thousand times better, that this old hulk of a planet 
should founder for ever in the depths of space. But we 
onust be wrong, since He keeps it afloat with all its freight 
of guilt and misery, with its cargo of slaves and convicts 
cursing, blaspheming, tempting, falling, agonizing beneath 



370 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

the hatches, through all the horrors of this middle passage i 
And since He bears with it, who is both chiefly wronged 
by it, and more offended with the evil in it than we can be, 
let us learn to do what little we can, simply, faithfully, 
zealously, to diminish, if only by a grain's weight, the evil 
around us, and leave the great mystery of that evil, and of 
(dl evil, to the day when alone, if ever, we shall understand 
it. The?!, if we understand it not, Ave shall understand Him, 
who permitted it, too Avell to doubt His wisdom; and, 
better still, have faith, if not knowledge, equal to the task 
of accepting the- conviction of His unlimited goodness. 

For the present, we, at least Z, must not meditate much 
on this theme ; — " that way madness lies.*' — So I say to 
myself, " Up and be doing ! What are the engagements 
of the day, you lazy dog?" — and that thought of simj^le 
trusting duty sets me on my legs again, just as the involun- 
tary chirruj) which accompanied the self-expostulation has, 
I see, made poor Carlo, who had likewise been in a deep 
fit of abstraction on a chair by the Avindow, all life and 
spirits ! Bless your honest old face, you affectionate beast. 
I wonder what you have been thinking of; perhaps of the 
origin of evil to the dog species — or the lamentable num- 
ber of houseless, half-starved, ill-used hounds there are in the 
world. Thank you for your cheerful looks, old fellow ! You 
often teach a lesson or two, better than any Cynic 23hiloso- 
phei- I know of — Well, well, Ave Avill go out, if you like, 
but you need not tear my coat all to pieces, you brute ! 

And so, my friend, Avith this little play Avith my dog, uj) 
go the clouds Avhich I am sorry to say too often descend on 
my soul Avhen I foolishly think of such things as I but noAV 
dwelt upon. But the misty curtain is rising noAV under 
the cheering breeze Avhich has sprung up. Fast up the 
hill they lift and lift, — and noAV I can see the sunlight 



ANGLO-SAXON CRIMINAL CODE. 871 

struggling through a rift here and there ; and so I will out 
on the hills with Carlo, for the good both of body and 
mind ; fare thee well. 

But I invite you to resume these edifying speculations 
when we shall be less likely to be injured by them, and 
less liable to interruptions; say, ten thousand five hundred 
and forty-nine years hence, at your pleasant house in 
"Paradise Street," in the heavenly city — the metro])olis 
of the *' better country," in full view of the immortal 
verdure and glorious sunlit summits of the "everlasting 
hills." There will I wrangle with you with much delight 
for a thousand years ! — But my dog gets impatient, and 
has set up such a clamor of barking joy, that I cannot 
Avrite for him. 

By the way, I hope my "faithful dog may bear me 
company;" so far I am an Indian. But, then, I do not 
know anything in Christian theology that absolutely 
forbids a faint hope of once more meeting with these 
fond comj^anions, — these four-legged Abdiels — " faithful 
amonsjst the faithless." 



Ever yours. 



E. E. II. G. 



LETTER LXXXV. 

TO ALFRED WEST, ESQ. 

1854. 
My dear Friend, 

Have you read Kemble's "Anglo-Saxons? If not, it 

is worth your Avhile. It has led me to rummage again 

into their history, and I found equal instruction and 

amusement in doing so. There Ave see the "incimabula 

gentis nostrae," — the cradle of the great English giant — 



372 THE GKEYSON LETIEIIS. 

of that huge Colossus which iiovv bestrides the world. In 
the Anglo-Saxon genius and institutions, we discern the 
germs, at all events, of that wonderful constitution, the 
great merit of which consists in its organic development : 
that it has assumed its shape and attained its stature by 
vital forces from within, not been hewn, fashioned, and 
built up from without. Like an oak, it was not " made," 
but "grew," and the acorn, whence all its leafy honors 
and all its wide-spreading foliage, was dropj^ed into the 
soil more than a thousand years ago. 

Some of the Anglo-Saxon institutions, however, were 
certainly odd enough; and of all the droll things which 
human legislation has concocted, their criminal code was 
surely one of the drollest. The precise money-value which 
they attached to the life of every man according to his 
rank, and the precision with which the loss or mutilation 
of every organ of the human body was api3raised, reminds 
one rather of a butcher's shop, where Revenge might 
either purchase the whole carcass or haggle for a partic- 
ular joint at its good pleasure. You might have a king, 
it seems, for "thirty thousand thrymsas," or about a 
hundred and fifty pounds ; a prince for half the money, 
and a bishop or earl for a third. Only think ! if such laws 
were in force now, — a millionaire, — some Baron Roths- 
child, — might take off half the bench of bishops, and 
never miss the money ! 

As to mutilations, nothing to a Adndictive spirit can be 
imagined more convenient. Do you want to " break the 
thigh " of your enemy, or " cut off his ears ? " Twelve 
shillings is the moderate price for the dainty gratification. 
If you are contented to " cut off the finger," you may save 
a shilling; if you simply "cut off his great toe," or tear off 
"his hair entirely'','* ten shillings will do; while if you are 
satisfied with merely ''knocking out one of his front 



ANGLO-SAXON CRIMINAL CODE. 373 

teeth," you will have.it, surely cheap enough, at six shil- 
lings ! 

Methinks, in these civilized days, we should soon reduce 
the system to convenient commercial forms. We should 
make our revenge, like other luxuries, a question of ex- 
penditure and income, and j^ut down so much for it, just 
as for wine or cigars. Ladies, in their marriage settle- 
ments, might bargain for their spite-inoney^ as now for 
their pin-money ; while neat little Christmas bills might 
be sent in, exhibiting the exact debtor and creditor con- 
dition of the feud betAveen you and your adversary. 
What jDleasant items ! 

John Smith, Dr., to John Brovm. 



To the loss of my little child's great toe 
To piercing my wife's nose 
To knocking out my servant's eye-tooth 
To breaking my boy's ann 

Creditor, by having lost an arm in the 
last scuffle 



Balance due to J. B 



£ 


s. 


d. 





11 







9 







4 







6 





1 


10 







12 







18 






But I suj^pose our Anglo-Saxon forefathers would have 
found out admirable reasons for their fantastical system ; 
equally fantastical, whether we consider its general prin- 
cij^le, or the capricious rate of valuation of particular inju- 
ries. Some, perhaps, would even have found out that, 
however anomalous, the thmg worked icell, and could not be 
disturbed without the most fatal consequences to the whole 
common weal ! In the meantime, we can see that in one 
respect it had a solid recommendation ; for, like most legis- 
lative expedients of a rude age, it seems to have been a 
transition from a worse system — that of the unlimited 

32 



374 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

prosecution of private revenge. Anything that will put a 
legal limit to that, must be by comparison a blessing ; 
otherwise each injury, sacredly consigned to revenge, 
must lead on to an infinite series of similar acts, or can 
terminate only w^hen one party to a feud is absolutely 
exterminated. " I do not see," said some one to a New 
Zealand chief, " how your wars, once begun, can ever be 
ended ; for you say revenge is a sacred duty, and each 
retaliation becomes a new aoisrression." The ISTew Zealand 
chief, it is said, was rather puzzled at so novel an argu- 
ment ; but on reflection admitted that it must be so. Of 
course it must ; as was the case with our Gaelic fore- 
fathers; among whom injuries w^ere heir-looms, and, pretty 
often, the chief j^art of the ragged inheritance. A kills B, 
C kills A, D kills C, and so on, down the wiiole alj^habet, 
to Z, and then all to begin over again. Pleasant times to 
live in, uj)on my w^ord ! Thank God, we live in better. 

Yours very truly, 

B. E. H. *G. 



LETTER LXXXYI. 

to the same. 
My dear West, 

I knew your friend Mr. G. w^as hasty ; from what you 
say, he seems also to be sulky, which I did not suspect, 
and can less readily forgive. It is a beneficent arrange- 
ment of Providence, argues old Thomas Fuller, that a 
stoi-m and a fog cannot come together ; for if there is a 
storm, it clears away the fog, and if there is a fog, the 
wind is calm. Your quondam friend seems to show that 
that may be possible in the moral world which is impos- 



"SEDATIVES OF ANGER." 375 

sible in the natural. The vapors in his soul, like those on 
a mountain side when the clouds lie low, may roll and 
tumble, it seems, with the gusts of passion, but do not 
disjDerse. 

Anybody may be overtaken with sudden anger, and 
when frankly acknowledged and repented of, it is easily 
forgiven; nay, I have known some choleric j)ersons so 
sweetly and ingenuously own their fault, that one can 
hardly regret that it has been committed. But at all 
events the temptation is sometimes so swift and sudden — 
it is so difficult to intercept it by putting the soul into a 
posture of defence — that one may easily be betrayed into 
a transient emotion of anger. Many are the prescribed 
prophylactics, but I know none that is infallibly effectual. 
Some say, — " When inclined to be angry, bite your thumb 
or your tongue till the blood comes ; that will operate a 
diversion, and give you something to think about." Very 
likely — but whether it will tend to calm our passion may 
well be doubted. Others say — " Count a million or two, 
and by the time you get to the end, you will be quite 
cool." Very true — but the worst of it is, the mind must 
be cool before it can think of any such remedy. 

But continued resentment has no such excuse. It is a 
sin of deliberation, and is persisted in by wilfully nursing 
and petting it. 

Do you remember that eminently beautiful passage in 
Paley's "Moral Philosophy," — one of the few in which he 
becomes genial and almost eloquent, — in which he sets 
down the reflections proper for appeasing anger, and which 
he calls its sedatives f They are all well-imagined, and 
many of them very touching, and can scarcely ever be re- 
volved by a mind in the condition described, without tran- 
quillizing it. But the real difficulty is to get the mind into 
the posture of pondering them ; if that be done, the mind 



376 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

will already be comparatively calm. — If Paley had been 
more of a metaphysician, he would have added to his other 
sedatives of anger the salutary effect of the very attempt to 
apply these " sedatives ; " for the moment we begin to re- 
flect upon and analyze our emotion, the emotion is gone. 
I hope your friend Mr. G. will begin to " analyze " without 
delay. 

M. L. is going out as cadet to India, with all the san- 
guine feelings proper, at least natural, at his age, and utterly 
improper and impossible at any other. Enviable magic of 
youthful imagination! which thus converts all the future 
into golden dreams, and presages not a cloud on the hori- 
zon even as "big as a man's hand." Well, it is best that it 
should be so ; for if it were otherwise, where were enter- 
prise — that child of hope and fancy ? A picture brighter 
in tints than ever artist painted, is the lure which leads all 
young vigor to action. " Knowledge is power," and so is 
ignorance, it seems ; and if it were not, the world would 
stagnate. It is thus that Providence gently imjDels us to 
take our places in His School, and learn our lessons and en- 
dure His discipline ; from all which we should resile fast 
enough, if we knew at the outset what a business it was 
like to be. Here is this lad already anticipating his return 
from India, (his mother of course is to be alive,) with no 
end of rupees in his pocket, and not a touch of liver com- 
plaint ! In like manner, a young ensign no sooner puts on 
his uniform, than he becomes lieutenant, captain, major, 
colonel, in no time ; nobody knows how great a man he is, 
— which indeed is all very true ; and it is well if he is not 
soon Commander-in-Chief, and returning home, after another 
Waterloo, to hear the plaudits of a grateful nation, — all 
unwitting that he may perish in a ditch before the beard on 
his chin is fairly established. In like manner, the young 
lawyer is apt to fancy himself already Lord Chancellor — 



YOUTHFUL HOPES. 377 

lias a vision of the woolsack, and of himself sitting upon it 
almost as clear as in a dream — quite as clear, it ought to 
be, for it is a dream ; while the young lover — but there is 
no end to his romances ! What a paragon of excellences 
and beauties is that young lady ! and what wonderful suc- 
cess, for her sake, attends him in life ! Yet he can make 
shift with little but love ; " a cottage of content," covered 
of course with woodbines and honeysuckles, adorns the 
waste of the future. If he wants it, he has in imagination 
ten thousand a year — or if hot, imagination tells him that 
a hundred or a hundred and fifty will do just as well ; it is 
absolutely inexhaustible, and, Avith " love and content," can 
purchase, furnish, and maintain his paradise. Yet out of 
the dreams of hope, seldom to be fulfilled, are shaped the 
realities of the stern future. 

Commend me to the moderate ambition of that New 
Zealand chief, of whom I have somewhere read, who, on 
the distribution of some captain's gifts, said that " his heart 
would burst if he did not get a Ao6," as some hai)i)ier com- 
rade had done. A strange paradox is the human heart, 
which not even the world can fill, and which yet, it seems, 
may go to pieces for want of a hoe ! 

Believe me. 

Yours faithfully, 

E. E. n. G. 



LETTER LXXXVII. 

TO THE SAME. 

Dec. 1854. 
My DEAR Frtenp, 

I have been reading, with intense interest, that curious 

and ingenious book (have you read it ?) on the " Plurality 

32* 



378 THE GRFYSON LETTERS. 

of Worlds, — and also a long article in rej^ly. Like other 
folks, I of course muse with special eagerness on subjects 
which, like this, we have no possible means of deciding; and 
which if they were decided, can in no way concern us. All 
that is quite natural. Here have I been spending the last 
two or three mornings in a " Fool's paradise," — debating 
whether or not other worlds are inhabited, while letters 
which I had to write, and business which I had to transact 
in this world (which unluckily is inhabited), were all neg- 
lected ! But doubtless, it is much the same all over the 
universe. The philosophers of Venus, — if she be inhabited, 
and can boast of philosophers, — are, I do not question, 
much more intent on finding out whether our world is in- 
habited than in attending to the business of their own 
proper planet. Meantime, is \i not pleasant to think that 
our philosophers and their readers have so much leisure 
time on their hands that they can afford to look after the 
possible citizens of other worlds, and such expansive benev- 
olence as to wish them all imaginable felicity ? It is a ques- 
tion, I remember, in Martinus Scriblerus, whether " a possi- 
ble angel be not more worthy of the divine regards than an 
actually existent fly ? " From the keen interest with which 
a philosopher can sometimes speculate on this question of 
the " Plurality of Worlds " and the oblivion, in which, mean- 
time, he may leave the affairs of this, one might certainly 
imagine that, in his estimate, a possible inhabitant of Venus 
is more worthy of attention than an actual inhabitant of 
Earth. 

" These discussions are all very well," I can hear some 
Utilitarian groAvling out ; " but it would be better if your 
philosophers would spend their time in promoting the wel- 
fare of those they know exist and can benefit, and not gad 
about the universe in search of imaginary ladies and gen- 
tlemen of inaccessible worlds." 



TLURALITY OF WORLDS. 379 

Yet, with due submission to onr Utilitarian, I certainly 
think the Essay on the " PluraUty of Worlds " may subserve 
a very useful purpose ; and if it had been a little differently 
constructed, I think it Avould have read us lessons entirely 
unexceptionable, — as it even now teaches us many valuable 
ones. I thought before I dipped into it (judging from 
report merely), that it was an ironical argument, designed, 
not seriously to call in question the probability of a " Plu- 
rality of Worlds," — a conclusion which so many analogies 
favor, and which will, I suppose, be always adopted by nine- 
tenths of mankind, — but to show philosophers how little 
they really hioio about the matter, and how little reason 
there was for the confidence and doG^matism Avith winch 
cosmologists have often chattered about such subjects. I 
say there was ample ground for reading the world such a 
lesson ; for really the conceit of modern science had been 
getting on at such a rate with its " fire mists," its "condensa- 
tions " of " subtle fluid matter," and its theories of " nebulas" 
consolidating into stars, that thousands began to tlaink it 
was the easiest thing in the world to make a world ; nay, 
that they could even see them a-mciking. I almost fancy 
some of our wise cosmogonists would hardly have blushed 
to head a chapter in a similar way with one in Knicker- 
bocker's " History of New York," — "Showing how that 
the creation of a world is by no means so difficult a matter 
as has been sometimes imagined." 

On reading the book, however, though I think it does 
convey some such reproofs very forcibly, I find many pas- 
sages which look as if the author seriously designed, not 
merely to challenge proofs of ingenious and plausible hypoth- 
eses, or rebuke the confidence Avith which they have been 
maintained, but to show that there is really a preponder- 
ance of argument in favor of the hypothesis that otlier 
worlds are not inhabited. On the other hand, his opponent, 



380 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

the Reviewer, seems to me to speak as much too dogmati- 
cally on the other side ; he lays much more stress on some 
Scripture phrases than they will bear; nor does lie suffi- 
ciently remember, — when he gives his scientific conjectures 
of what is certainly jyossihle enough, or even probable 
enough, — that the question which the author of the " Plu- 
rality " constantly urges, is not what may be^ but what is / 
not what may possibly be true, but what is hnoimi about 
the matter. 

That is assuredly little enough. We know but little even 
" of our next-door neighbor" — the moon ; and Avhat we 
do know seems to have pretty "svell convmced astronomers 
that she is not inhabited ; we at the same time know that 
our earth certainly is. These are the only two worlds of 
whose condition, relatively to this subject, we are entitled 
to speak with any measure of confidence; so that the data 
seem lamentably meagre for a sweeping generalization either 
way. The problem, in fact, seems to be much like this ; — 
Given one world which is certainly inhabited, and one other 
which most probably is not ; to discover whether other 
worlds are inhabited or not. This sounds to me about as 
promising as this ; — Given one river which has fish, and 
another Avhich has none ; to discover wdiether other i-ivers, 
of which nothing is known, have fish or not ; — a hopeful 
problem for a priori speculation ! 

Yet, after all, though we Icnoio nothing about the matter, 
I suppose all the books in the world will not prevent, men 
from being of a very confident persuasion^ — arguing from 
general analogy, — that the worlds above us are not all 
empty solitudes ; but, like our own, either already, or des- 
tined to be, the abodes of life. 

Nevertheless, to show how little we hnov:! of the matter, 
the hypothesis of the author of the " Plurality " or that of 
his opponent may be absolutely true ; and, again, both may 



PLURALITY OF WORLDS. 381 

be partially true. It 'inay be that every one of the worlds 
around us is in the predicament in which the aiithor of tlie 
" Plurality " so ingeniously argues this world must have 
been millions of years before life appeared in it. Even if 
designed to be the abodes of life, they may be only build- 
ing, not built ; not yet tenantable — the scaffolding all still 
about them; the carpenter, upholsterer, and painter, not 
yet admitted ; or, if I may change the figure, the " crust " 
of these worlds may still be a-baking, or rather cooling^ if 
that be the approved scientific mode in which the crust of 
worlds is made. Our world may be the only one tho- 
roughly fitted up. On the other hand, for aught we know, 
this may be the last that was finished ; while they all may 
have rejoiced in the completion of the process myriads of 
ages ago ! Even the moon herself, on that side of which 
we know nothing, may be a paradise, and full of happy in- 
habitants ; and the side which alone we see, may be the 
rocky foundations of her other glorious hemisphere — an 
"Arabia Petraea" bordering an " Arabia Fehx." There 
tnay be in other worlds no life as yet ; there may be only 
forms of animal life inferior to man ; there may be rational- 
ity conjoined with the most diverse organization from ours, 
— mtelligence essentially like ours, but indefinitely superior 
or indefinitely inferior to it ; there may be beings with only 
one sense or two, and there may be others like Voltaire's 
Little Man of Saturn, or like " Micromegas " himself, with 
fifty senses, and a knowledge of " three hundred essential 
properties of matter ; " there may be rational creatures, in 
each of the various planets, adapted by special organization 
to their physical conditions of light and heat, and local po- 
sition in the universe, — affording, amidst essential unity of 
plan conjoined with endless modifications in execution, 
proofs of the inexhaustible fertility of the Divine invention, 
the " manifold wisdom of God ; " and there may be, to 



382 THE GKEYSON LETTERS. 

prove that " manifold wisdom" yet more conspicuously, not 
only rationality like ours, but even a physical organization 
like ours too, in planets most dissimilarly situated in refer- 
ence to the sun, and most dissimilarly constituted in them- 
selves ; — and this by means of a modification of their sec- 
ondary laws ; of a special physical apparatus, which, for 
aught we know, may make Mercury as cool, and Saturn as 
warm, as the Earth. So that, on the one hand, while the 
planets are differently placed relati^'ely to the centre of the 
system, they may have inhabitants organized very differ- 
ently from ourselves, yet exquisitely adapted to them / or 
they may have inhabitants like ourselves, in virtue of dis- 
tinct adaptation of their own local laws to such inhabitants ; 
or, which again is very possible, both these suppositions may 
be true in different portions of the universe, and thus con- 
jointly illustrate the infinitude of the divine resources. 
Here is a " j^lentiful assortment" of conjectures, any one of 
which may be true ; nay, all of them at the very same time, 
in different regions of space! But as to what \^ hnoion^ 
demonstrable — how much is it ? i 

The folks of other -worlds, — supposing those worlds to 
be inhabited, — w^hat would they say if they knew that we 
are writing books and waging strenuous controversies as 
to their possible existence ? I fancy they would be inclined 
to say of us, " The inhabitants of that little Avorld can have 
very little to do, since they can find time for the active 
pursuit of such visionary speculations ! " But what would 
they say if they found that, in these and in many other 
equally conjectural inquiries, philosophers could not refrain 
from vehement objurgation and mutual rej^roaches ? — 
sometimes even lost their temper, and charged each other 
with absurdity and stupidity? — nay, with grave tenden- 
cies to " Atheism, " if others did not " dream the same 
dream" as they? Methinks our planetary friends would 



PLURALITY OF WOKLDS. 383 

say, lliat tlie " Know Thyself," wliich was said so long ago 
to have " descended from heaven," still remains there ; and 
that, Avhatever else our ^philosophers have succeeded in 
fetching from other worlds, they had at least left that be- 
hind them 

Ever yours, etc. 

R. E. H. G. 



LETTER LXXXVIII. 

to the same. 
My dear Friend, 

On recollecting what I wrote the other day, I half re- 
pent of some of the sentiments I expressed. I laughed a 
little at the busy idleness which sends us all roaming into 
other worlds when we have so much to do in this, 
and so little time to do it in, and perhaps it does look 
rather whimsical ; yet, in calmly computing not only the 
pleasure but the benefit of the hours I have spent with my 
two authors, I am by no means sure that they have not 
been wisely spent. If they have not given me knowledge, 
I am not sure that they have not given me what is better. 
How elevating is even speculation, — if we be at all sober 
and modest, — on such a theme ! What can so teach us 
humility, — our insignificance and weakness, — as such a 
little tour through the universe ! How does even that ig- 
norance, in Avhich we are at last compelled to acquiesce 
instruct us yet more profoundly than our limited knoAvl- 
edge ! How ennobling are those thoughts that ^' wander 
through infinity," — at least raising us above this world if 
they cannot reveal to us the condition of other Avorlds ! 

And even if ever so unprofitable, yet how inevitable, is 
the curiosity which impels man to such speculations ! Who 



384 THE GRF.YSON LETTERS. 

can resist them ? Who can look up to the glittering lights 
which steal out at solemn eventide, or blaze out all over 
the azure arch on a frosty night, without asking the ques^ 
tions which these authors strive to solve, or feeling himself 
the better for meditation on them ? 

And if there be inhabitants of other worlds, depend on 
it they feel much as we do. If there are folks on the other 
side of the moon, — my word for it, they have scrambled 
up to the ridge which divides their hemisphere from that 
seen by us, and peered (even though they should risk their 
necks by it) down on the earth ; — to them a glorious lamp, 
about thirteen times the size of the full moon, hanging mo- 
tionless in their sky ! Yes, I see it all ; their philosophers 
are full of conjectures about us, and have absolutely settled 
it in their minds that so beautiful an orb must be the abode 
of innocence and happiness ! 

We know they are a little mistaken in this matter ; but 
then, alas ! may not we be too, when we speculate in a sim- 
ilar manner about the diffusion of happiness, as well as life, 
in other worlds ! This, I confess, is one of the most dis- 
mal thoughts which arrest us in our speculations on the 
*•' Plurality of Worlds." We are apt to imagine these beau- 
tiful abodes of light not only full of life, but of felicity also. 
How far may "distance lend enchantment to the view?'' 
How far, as in other excursions of fancy, may we be the 
dupes of the seeming fair and beautiful ? Do the shadows 
of evil lie as deep on the surface of those shining orbs, in 
spite of their radiant exterior to us, as we know they do on 
our world, though the folks in the moon may be felicitat- 
ing us on our splendor, and the poets of Venus returning 
the compliments of our own to her, by sonnetteering us as 
an " island of the blest ? " It will not do to dwell on this 
side of the speculation; so let us come back, my friend, 
while we are still only the wiser for our transient flights 



PLURALITY OF WORLDS. 385 

through space, to the httle chx-le of j^resent duty, and leave 
the question of " Evil " to him who has said that " secret 
things belong to God ; but the things that are revealed, to 
us and to our children ; " and He has revealed that " He 
will make all things work together for good to them that 

love Him." 

Yours ever affectionately, 

E. E. H. G. 

P. S. — On reflection, ichy should this matter of the 
Plurality of AYorlds be so long and so doubtfully disputed? 
Why should we have mere conjectures, when "modern 
science " can so easily give us certainty ? Why does not 
" clairvoyance " settle the matter for us ? What is the use 
of it, if it cannot determine such a trifling controversy ? 
All that a clairvoyant has to do is to put himself en rapport 
with Mercury or Venus ; and he can tell us all about the 
thing. As Hopeful says in the " Pilgrim's Progress," " Why 
should I remain in this dungeon, when I have a key in my 
bosom M'hich will open all the wards in Giant Despair's 
castle." So say I ; why should we remain ignorant on 
this question of the "Phirality of Worlds," while there are 
clairvoyantes in the Jand? And there is the more induce- 
ment, surely, for these knowing ones to speak, inasmuch as 
they must have it all their own way ; none can contradict 
them, unless, indeed (which is but too probable), they con- 
tradict one another. If they tell us that the inhabitants of 
Jupiter have two heads and ten eyes, pray, my dear friend, 
can you or I deny it? But I forget; the thing is already 
done ; see the revelations of the " Poughkeepsie Seer," and 
you will find everything plain. The inhabitants of Jupiter, 
in particular, are duly described, anatomically, physiologi- 
cally, mentally, and morally. After this, who but must be 
surprised that the controversy between our j^hilosophers 



should go on? 



33 



386 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

I wish our clairvoyantcs, in the meantime, would just 
condescend to tell us Avhether Austria is meditatins: treach- 
ery this coming spring, and how many troops and what 
munitions are at this moment in Sebastopol. Strange per- 
verseness of these gifted beings ! They can tell us all sorts 
of useless things : liow Mr. Brown is employed, in the tAvo 
pair of stairs' back, No 10, of any street in London ; Avhat 
Sir John Franklin was doing on such a day at the North 
Pole ; what sort of creatures inhabit Jupiter ; and yet they 
won't let us know anything that is of any earthly use to us. 
How can they wonder that men are sceptical as to their 
jDOwers, when tliey will not exercise them to any purpose ? 
And strangely blind must they be to their own interests ! 
What would not the " Times " give for such a si^ecimen of 
" Our own Correspondent ! " — what would not govern- 
ment give for such an agent ! In the name of common 

sense, try and persuade your clairvoyant friend, T. S , 

to do something for us. 



LETTER LXXXIX. 

TO REV. C. ELLIS. 

Akran, July, ISol. 
My dear Ellis, 

I think you would not easny imagine how a part of last 

evening was spent. Well, I will tell you. At the modest 

little table (V hote at the Brodick Arms (there might have 

been, perhaps, half a dozen of us present), I, with some 

others, was watching the progress of a discussion between 

two of the party, on a subject which I imagine they would 

not have chosen to discuss in such a place, nor, I dare say, 

before an audience of strangers. But they got insensibly 

embroiled, and at last urged each other on to give the most 



A DOUBLE DEFEAT AND NO VICTORY. 387 

undisguised expression of opinion. The rest of us gradu- 
ally left our commonplace chat to listen to them, except 
two, who seemed to think the discourse either not interest- 
ing or not important enough to detain them. " And what 
was the subject?" you will ask. Oh! a mere bagatelle, 
my dear friend, in these enlightened days; — it was simply 
whether or not there be a God ! or whether man alone, so 
far as we know, has the privilege of conscious intelligence 
and personal importance in the universe ! Of the two com- 
batants, one was an Atheist, and the other a Deist. 

Confess, now, that you would not have guessed that such 
a subject would have been discussed at a Uible d? hote. I 
will add that you would not often hear it more acutely dis- 
cussed in a college. Among the four or five of us who 
became gradually interested listeners, was a citizen of Glas- 
gow, — a plain Christian man, who had probably never 
heard such undisguised impieties so calmly avowed and 
discussed before. He sat, for the most part, in a sort of 
fascination of horror, yet a highly interested and intelligent 
listener; for to many a Scotchman a little bitof "meta- 
pheesyks " is as dear as " oatmeal parritch." As he listened 
to the reckless challenging of truths, which seemed to him 
clear as the light, and infinitely more precious, he reminded 
me of nothing so much as a bird under the fascination of a 
serpent. At the close, however, he broke in with a very 
decisive expression of his opinion, and showed that, how- 
ever he might have been fixed for a while by the rattle- 
snake gaze of a live Atheist, he was not going to jump 
down his throat. 

And what was the general result, you will ask, of the 
controversy ? Did it not end, as most others end, in con- 
vincing nobody? 

Perhaps so; — but not in confuting nobody. Each 



388 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

was victorious, triumphantly victorious, in defeating his 
opponent. 

Tlie issue was a little like that which, according to Sully, 
attended a certain stratagem in the wars of the League. 
The citizens of the town of Yille-Franche went out at 
night to surprise the neighboring town of Montj^azier. 
That very same night, the good folks of Montpazier had 
taken it into their heads to surprise the town of Yille- 
Franche ! Each party accoutred a sufficient force, and each 
took a diffi3rent route; each found the enemy's quarters 
obligingly vacated for the other's benefit ; and when morn- 
ing dawned, each party found itself at once successful and 
unsuccessful — victorious and defeated ! " On pilla, on se 
gorgea de butin ; tout le monde se crut heureux jusqu'a ce 
que le jour ayant j^aru, les deux villes connurent leur me- 
prise." 

Among other things, the Deist affirmed that he had an 
" intuitional consciousness " of the Infinite and of the Deity. 
The Atheist denied that he was conscious of anything 
of the kind. Now, when one finite mind declared that it 
had consciousness of the infinite, and another finite mind 
denied it had any such consciousness, it is hard to see how 
the controversy could go any further in that direction; 
— unless indeed the Deist had told the Atheist that he 
lied ; which I suppose Avould not have ended, but rather 
changed the nature of, the controversy. 

The Deist then got on to the old and, as I believe, irre- 
fragable argument of the " Marks of Design " in the uni- 
verse and every thing in it, and which, he contended, prove 
an " intelligent author." 

The Atheist did not deny that there were plenty of 
marks of design , that is, just such things as design^ sup- 
posing the universe the work of an intelligent author, would 



A DOUBLE DEFEAT AND NO VICTORY. 389 

have exhibited; but he affirmed with the great Comte, 
that though tlie adaptations of things, one to another, were 
infinite, they were not really indicative of design at all, but 
were simply " conditions of existence ; " that if man's eyes 
were not so and so constituted (surely an undeniable truth), 
he would not see, and that because they icere so constituted, 
he did see (equally undeniable) ; and that is all that is to 
be said ! ^Yho but must be satisfied w ith so clear a state- 
ment ? 

The misfortune is that it explains nothing, but leaves the 
whole argument just where it was. I must do my Deist 
the justice to say that he exposed this sophism admirably; 
he showed that it still attributed all the adaptations^ which 
seem to indicate design, to blind chance or blind necessity 
christened with a " new nothing," an unmeaning name ; — 
it being still asked, how so many conditions of existence 
came so happily to conspire ; as before it was asked how 
so many " marks of design " came to exist without any 
designer ? He also remarked that manifold adaptations 
are not " conditions of being " merely, but conditions of 
well-being ; that man doubtless coidd exist though he had 
a score of deformities — a hump on his back, or club feet ; 
— that he coidd put food into his stomach, though he had 
no palate which made it pleasant to do so, and so forth. 1 
am sure he handled his argument capitally, and, I thought, 
M. Comte cut a very sorry figure. 

But he further argued that supposing all these apparent 
" marks " of design, apparent only, yet the mind of man 
was so constituted, its " conditions " of logic such, that the 
immense majority of the race could not help, for the life of 
them, judging these " adaptations " to be the effects of 
design ; that this was confirmed by all experience, and that 
therefore, z/ Atheism Avas t)ie truth, still it would always 
be rejected, and its advocates in fact might as well keep 



390 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

their mouths shut. He affirmed that they must always be, 
as they ever had been, a vanishing fraction of the race. 
" Men will still dispute," said he, laughing, " whether there 
ever was an Atheist or not. Nothing can be plainer from 
all history than that man, however he got it, has a ' reli- 
gious faculty ^^ and will be a religious animal." 

This nettled our Atheist, and he retorted very cleverly, 
— that if induction from the phenomena of the " religious 
faculty " inferred a God, it equally inferred ten thousand, 
of the most dissimilar attributes and the most grotesque 
characteristics ; that the Deist must take the induction from 
the phenomena of the race generally, and not from two or 
three Deists in a corner, who were fond of stealing their 
" Monotheism " from the Bible they abjured, and then 
setting up as original oracles ; that the indications of reli- 
gious truth are to be gathered from the phenomena of 
entire humanity, and the incalculable majority of men in 
all ages have been gross idolaters ; now if so, as neither 
Atheist nor Deist know anything of a doctrine of "human 
corruption," but deny any such, it must be inferred that 
the " religious faculty," as its general^ that is, normal mani- 
festation, pointed only to Gods, which, for aught we can 
see, are little better than none ! From the Deist's " stand- 
point " it was difficult to reply to this. 

But when the Atheist came to demand the completion 
of the Deist's system, and to ask how much he could cer- 
tify of God ; what were His aspects towards man ; what 
man's position and duties ; what man's origin and destinies ; 
whether he was immortal or not, and so on : in a word, 
when he came to press the Deist on points, without a solu- 
tion of which his theory of a deity, to such a being as man, 
IS stark naught, ignorance left him in as sorry a plight as 
his adversary had been. 

" Power and wisdom palpably present in the universe ; 



A DOUBLE DEFEAT AND NO VICTORY. 391 

goodness, extensively;" — he could get no further than 
that. To all the questions man feels so intensely interested 
in, he could answer only by conjectures and assumptions, 
and these the Atheist twitted him with often filching from 
the Bible he derided. " You may see," said he, " how 
little man knows on such subjects by looking at him as ho 
has been in nine hundred and ninety-nine cases out of every 
thousand since history began ; you may see how little he 
knows, and how blmdly he hopes and fears, on these sub- 
jects. And you cannot, as the Christian can, talk of deprav- 
ity, — for you, like me, deny it." 

On the whole, the Scotchman was delighted with the 
issue of the controversy. " Ye are twa stalwart chiels," 
said he, — " nae doot o' that ; ye are like twa fighting bulls 
of Bashan that have got their horns sae fast locked, that it 
is hard to see how they are to get loose, excej^t by pulling 
ilk ither's heads aif. Faith, and I dinna ken that it wad 
muckle matter. But ye hae proved one thing, ony way ; 
that I canna afibrd to do without my Bible." 

I confess I felt much the same. It, and it alone, so far 
as I know, supplements the meagre truth of Deism, and 
enables us to baffle, if we cannot wholly remove, the difii- 
culties which chiefly provoke to Atheism. 

Yours very truly, 

R. E. II. G. 



LETTER XC. 

TO THE SAME. 



My dear Ellis, 

I wish I could gratify you by complying with your re- 
quest, and give the very words of the entire dialogue to 
which I referred in my last letter ; for it was very mstruc- 



392 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

tive and interesting. But it is impossible to recall it ex- 
actly, nor can I pretend to give you in full even that part 
of the argument for which you more particularly ask, and 
in which you seem to be so much interested : I mean that 
in which the Atheist replied to the Deist's nndeniably 
strong argument derived from the religious manifestations 
of human nature in general. The retort would be easily 
evaded by you or me, or any Christian, but from the stand- 
point of the Deist who ignored the fact of aught abnormal 
in the present condition of human nature, it seemed to me, 
(what the Deist's silence confessed it to be,) quite unan- 
swerable. But, though I cannot recall all the arguments 
used, still less the expressions, you will not be far out if you 
imagine the dialogue proceeding somewhat on this wise : 

The Deist, as I told you, went on triumphantly for some 
time with his argument from induction^ and I confess I 
could hardly see how it could be contested ; when his ad- 
versary said, very quietly, " You believe that the human 
mind is so constituted as to believe the existence of a 
God?" 

"Assuredly," said the other. 

*' That is, you believe that man w^as endowed with a 
mind framed in such a way that he could not but arrive, m 
the course of its normal development, at the idea of such a 
being ! " 

" Certainly." 

"And you believe that man is now just what he was when 
created. You do not believe that he has fallen from an 
originally higher state ; you reject all the fixbles of the 
* Golden Age,' the transient ' Paradise ' of Genesis, and all 
[the other fables by which so-called revelations affect to ac- 
count for the phenomena of presumed moral deterioration 
on the part of miserable humanity." 

" I acknowledge that I reject them all. 



A DOUBLE DEFEAT AND NO VICTORY. 393 

" For you are the disciple of Reason alone, and have 
nothing to do with Revelations ? " 

'^ Nothing." 

^' What idea of God does that Reason, thus innate in 
you, instruct you to form of the Deity ? " 

" That He is One, Infinite, Eternal, Uncaused, Omni- 
present, Omnipotent, and perfectly Benevolent." 

'' Is that the idea which so many as one out of a million 
of our race have formed ? Is it not the conception of the 
very few ? One God ! have not the immense, the over- 
whelming majority of mankind believed in hundreds? in 
thousands ? Have they not had ' gods many and lords 
many ? ' Gods coordinate and gods subordinate ? Gods of 
different powers in the universe taken jointly, and gods of 
them taken separately ? Gods of all objects natural, gods 
of all objects artificial ? Monkey divinities and cat divin- 
ities, sacred cows and sacred calves ? Divinities hewn with 
a hatchet out of a block of Avood, and equally divine blocks 
of wood w^ithout even the hatchet being employed upon 
them ? Nay, has not man made out of the very same block 
(as the Hebrew j^rophet said) the billet that kindles his fire, 
and the fuel that heats his oven, and the God which he 
bows down to and worships ? Has not the Fetichist pros- 
trated his senseless soul, in adoring silence, before a bit of 
tinsel or a glittering pebble ; and has not the Pantheist, with 
equal sense, called all things — pebbles and tinsel mcluded 
— the Deity collectively? Though it is sometimes said 
that man's gods are usually made like himself, I must con- 
tend that they are far below himself; destitute even of that 
spark of intelligence which himself boasts of possessing. 
He generally takes care before he condescends to worship 
his god that that little spark of reason shall be put out ! 
Or rather," lie continued sarcastically, " I think it may still 
be said that man's gods are usually a little above him — 



394 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

simply because they, at all events, nave not thought them- 
selves divine, nor Avorshipped what themselves have made. 
An Egyptian may adore a cat, a Brahmin a sacred cow ; 
but the cat and the cow neither believe themselves divine 
nor worship one another. And if they could but compre- 
hend the absurdity of wise man's genuflexions and offerings, 
they would certainly break out into one of the distinguish- 
ing characteristics of humanity, and indulge in a hearty 
' guffaw ' at their human adorers. Some of you talk about 
the necessary inference that, as man did not create himself, 
he must owe his existence to a God who is uncaused ; rather, 
from man's general practice through all races and all ages, 
you ought to argue in a different way, and say that it is 
one of the characteristic inferences of man's wise head, 
that a god must be created before it is to be adored : for 
man, you see, in the immense majority of cases, devoutly 
worships the Avork of his own fingers, — generally clumsy 
enough ! Instead of his gods fabricating him^ and hence, 
having, as you say, a title to his worship, he creates them^ 
and then adores them for the attributes he has gratuitously 
bestowed. You seem to think that it is the normal con- 
dition of mankind to break out into the poetry, — sublime 
poetry, I admit, — of the Hebrew bard, as he gazed on the 
spectacle of the starry heavens : — ' When I behold the 
heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars 
which thou hast ordained, what is man that thou art mind- 
ful of him, and the son of man that thou visitest him ? ' On 
the contrary," said he, laughing, as he pursued the contrast 
of men in general, " man Avhen he has surrounded himself 
with his artificial divine deformities, the divine monsters he 
has turned out of his own workshop, his little grotesque 
images of clay, wood, or stone, and contemplates their ugly 
perfections — seems to say to the frights — ' When I behold 
the idols which my fingers have made — what is man in 



A DOUBLE DEFEAT AND NO VICTORY. 395 

comparison ? ' And sure enough he may well ask the 
question. Now if you say that the bulk of the species have 
looked beyond these works of their hands, and have recog- 
nized a supreme God under these fantastic forms, I deny, 
1. That many of them have; 2. That of those who have 
acknowledojed that there are ranks and orders amons: their 
divinities, very, very few have even apj^roximated to that 
comprehensive, and I will even add, sublime abstraction by 
which you have defined the Deity. As to the absolute 
Monotheists, — they have ever been a most miserable 
minority. Even those who have looked beyond subordi- 
nate deities in any sense, and acknowledged a Father of 
Gods and Men, — such as Jupiter, for example, (by my 
faith, he was the father of a good many of them, by all ac- 
counts — the name was not ill-bestowed,) have been com- 
paratively few. As to Jupiter, as generally conceived, who 
would not just as soon have worshipped any of the rabble 
that filled his 01ym23us, as that old roue! The sort of 
Supreme God recognized by some Polytheists has been far 
enough from resembling that notion you have given of Him, 
and which I suspect you have stolen from Moses and the 
Bible, like the rest of you Deists. But as for the tnass — 
the idea that these — the myriads of gross idolaters — have 
risen, in the very midst of their grovelling, crawling super- 
stitions, to the conception of such a God as you define, is 
absurd ; the mere circumstance that they are idolaters 
proves that such conceptions are veiled to them. To tell 
me that a man has any sublime ideas of an infinite spiritual 
Creator, an infinite Monarch of the universe, when he is all 
the while moping and mowing in adoration of a monkey, or 
a block of his own hewing, is nonsense. I can understand 
a little what you mean (though I deny its force as argu- 
ment) when you talk of looking up from Xature to Nature's 
God : I understand what you mean when you talk of rising 



396 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

from ' effects to causes' — though I deny that the one are 
effects, and that the ' causes ' are any other than imaginary; 
but that idolaters — who are the bulk of mankind — should 
' look up ' from the idols of their own maki7ig^ to Nature's 
God, — that is, from ' effects ' Avhich they worship as causes 
to a Sujireme Cause of all things, — is to me quite incredible." 

"Well, and Mdiat is the object of this long tirade?" said 
the other, quite innocently, and apparently unconscious of 
the retort preparing for him. 

" Why, that if you have any candor, you must acknowl • 
edge that the all but universal idea of God is not your idea ; 
that yours is the idea of a \erjfeic/ that in the ratio of a 
million to one, the notions of men have been the most 
enormous and grotesque parodies on what you would call 
the Deity!" 

" Certainly — I wont, for I can't deny it ; but still they 
have had the idea of a God ; in harmony with the condi- 
tions which I have represented as a fundamental law of 
the human mind." 

" A God ! — an idea of ten thousand you mean. Why 
did you say you inferred that the formation of such a notion 
was one of the conditions of the constitution of the human 
intellect?" 

" Because in the immense majority of mankind, we find 
some such idea developed. The Atheists are, and ever 
have been, such a miserable minority." 

" And just so I say of the Monotheists. M-go, if I grant 
that it is one of the conditions of the human mind that it 
should form some conception of a God, — because it is the 
actual condition of the immense majority of mankind that 
they have it, — you micst, in like manner, grant that it is 
one of the conditions of the human mind that it should 
form most various^ hideous^ odd^ grotesque^ imperfect^ de- 
grading conceptions of a God, for such have been the con- 



A DOUBLE DEFEAT AND NO VICTORY. 397 

ceptions, such they are still, of the immense majority of the 
race ; those who have resembled you, my deistical friend, 
having been ' a most miserable minority.' You say man is 
as he was created ; you say that he has just as much reason 
and conscience as he ever had ; and you see what follows 
from an induction of facts. If man necessarily forms some 
idea of a God or gods, we must infer by parity of reason 
from induction^ that he must ever form most unworthy 
and degrading notions of him." 

I was curious to see how the Deist would reply to this 
argument ; I considered how I should answer it myself if 
I were in his place. If I believed, as he did, that just what 
God had created man, such man is now ; that man still 
framed his notions of God, and of the worship due to Him, 
in obedience to that law which God had originally impressed 
on his nature, and under the conditions of thought origi- 
nally assigned; it was hard, in the face of such general 
results, to infer anything else than that either God had 
made a strange mistake in constituting human nature, 
if he really designed it to have that just and consistent 
idea of Him proclaimed by the Deist ; or that he never 
designed anything of the kind ; — or that, as the Bible says, 
man is no longer what God made him. This last solution, 
our Deist's reason had thrown aside contemptuously ; and 
no outlet to the ravine of rock seemed possible in that 
direction. I looked every way carefully, but could discern 
no mode of escaping ; it was a cul de sac to a Deist. 

Thus it seemed indisputable that the Atheist and the 
Deist were both perfectly right ; successful in confuting 
one another, without the possibility of escaping counter- 
confutation. The Deist was right in maintaining that the 
fundamental laws of the human mind necessitate, and must 
ever lead to the adoption of, some notions of a Deity ; be- 
cause from induction we see that in the immensely greater 

34 



398 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

number of cases, they have done so ; and the Atheist was 
right in maintaining that the equally universal fact of man's 
having formed notions of a Deity utterly degrading, gro- 
tesque and unworthy, shows that this also, in the majority 
of cases, is the inevitable condition of the human mind, 
as i^roved by a similar induction ; so that it seems — strange 
paradox! — that man is generally necessitated to discover a 
God, but that ^V^ general He will be such that it hardly 
matters two buttons whether He be discovered or not! 
" Therefore," said the disciple of M. Comte, in conclusion, 
" as you twit me with the uselessness of rtiy mission, and 
the absurdity of attempting to convert mankind to my 
vicTVB (which, I frankly acknowledge, have ever been con- 
fined to a very few), you must permit me to remind yoii 
that the folly of your efforts for the illumination of man- 
kind is equally egregious. Indeed, those who haA^e held 
your sublime views of the Deity, — pure monotheists, — 
have been scarcely more numerous — except as they have 
derived their notions from the Bible revelation, which you 
reject — than the Atheists themselves." 

My deistical friend made one desperate effort to recover 
his ground ; but it was very slij^pery — and he fell. I had 
no hope of his maintaining his footing ; but even I was 
surprised at the little he could reply to the argument. The 
Atheist pursued his advantage and said, com23lacently 
enough, " I must, nevertheless, contend that you are charge- 
able with one absurdity from which I am free. Believing 
in no God, and that the human mind is merely an assem- 
blage of " conditions " without a final cause, it is not at all 
wonderful to me that some of its notions should be strange, 
odd, and incongruous ; but if, as you say, man was formed 
by that superior and matchless intelligence you adore ; if 
he is now what that intelligence framed him, and equipped 
with laws of thought which necessarily develope a knowl- 



A DOUBLE DEFEAT AND NO VICTORY. 399 

edge of the Deity ; how is it that he should every where 
exhibit the curious phenomena I have insisted on ? It is 
utterly incomprehensible. That man should fancy there is 
a God when there is none, may be odd enough ; but that 
when God has created him so as to know and adore Him, 
man, being still possessed of all that God had originally 
endowed him with, should fail to find Him, — is to me an 
unfathomable mystery." 

" What answer there is," said I, interposing, " or can be, 
to this taunt, on the deistical hypothesis, I know not. Per- 
mit me to tell you, however, that it is of no avail against 
Christianity ; for the theories of Christianity and Deism 
are antipodal. Man, as you have insisted, does form, in 
the immense majority of cases, and ever has formed, the 
most degrading and absurd notions of the Deity; but 
Christianity is expressly founded on this admission, — on 
the lamentable reality of all the difficulties, which you have 
urged ; — it acknowledges as its foundation that while man 
has a nature which prompts to religious thought and feel- 
ing, that nature is corrupt — " and that the world by wis- 
dom knew not God." He was polite enough to acknoAV- 
ledge that the argument he had used did not affi3ct the 
theory of Christianity — except as afiecting every other 
theistical theory ; that is, as ultimately involving the con- 
sideration of the i^ermission of such a state of things as 
required the Divine intervention; in other words, as in- 
volving the problem of "the origin of evil." I told him 
that that was an abyss which I, for one, had many years 
ago explored as far as I intended, and was glad to have 
groped out with my torch still unextinguished ; but that, 
however deep, it left the arguments against Atheism unim- 
paired, and being in itself utterly unfathomable, could jus- 
tify no rejection of those arguments; — unless we are at 
liberty to argue against what we can comprehend from 



400 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

what we cannot. To this he did not reply ; and in truth 
it was high time to light our candles and go to bed. 

Ever yours. 

K. E. H. G. 



LETTER XCI. 

TO A FRIEND WHO HAD BECOME A DEIST. 



1852. 



My dear Friend, 

For, in spite of your doubts, I shall not cease so to ad- 
dress you. You say that as you are no longer a Christian, 
— more's the pity, say I, — you suppose I cannot think 
anything worthy of the name of " friendship " can sincerely 
subsist between us ; that persons whose sympathies must 
be so imperfect, whose intercourse, restrained and frigid, 
while it lasts, must, after a brief interval, be so sadly 
broken, and broken for ever, can hardly be friends. 

I, on the other hand, shall maintain, in spite of it, that 
if you haA'e lost all sympathy Avith me, I have lost none 
for you ; — and that even as a brother who has an infidel 
brother, or a father Avho has an infidel son, would prove 
himself a strange Christian brother or father by renounc- 
ing brother or son, so a Christian friend would prove him- 
self a very odd Christian and a very odd friend, who 
should abjure one who has been his friend because he is 
no longer a Christian. On the contrary, as a Christian 
father will feel and show a double solicitude and tender- 
ness towards his erring child, so must a friend discover 
not a diminished, but a quickened anxiety for the welfare 
of an erring friend. 

The aspect of his love will be indeed changed, and 
sorrow will mingle with it — but, believe me, my friend, 
it will be love still. 



TO A DEIST. 401 

Strange doctrine this of yours ! It is as though I were 
told that a man, fearing a friend had lost his way in a 
midnight passage of the mountains, might, with a quiet 
conscience, at once give up all hope of seeing him again, 
and instead of setting out with light and guides to seek 
him, coolly sit down in the chimney corner, saying, " Well 
— no doubt the poor soul is gone to the devil — but it 
can't be helped ! " 

I have not so learned Christianity; nor was this the 
exami')le of Him who came " to seek and to save that 
which was lost ; " who, for that purpose, left safe in the 
heavenly fold the ninety and nine that were in no danger, 
and sought in the wilderness the poor wanderers Avhose 
l^erils quickened, not rej^elled, his sympathies. If He was 
called, though He was " without sin," the " friend of pub- 
licans and sinners," I shall not hesitate, who am but a 
sinner myself, (albeit, I hope, a Christian,) still to call by 
the name of "friend" one who is a sinner even as I. 

The text you quote so tauntingly, (forgive me for say- 
ing so, — but it is tauntingly,) " What felloAvship hath 
Christ with Belial — or what part hath he tliat believeth 
with an infidel," is nothing to the purj)ose. Tliat text is 
intended to forbid the voluntary formation of close and 
ensnaring intimacies with those who are estranged from 
the Christian life in either sentiment or character. No 
doubt a Christian father Avould not choose to have an 
unbelieving son, if he could help it; and in the same 
manner, neither would a Christian man choose liis special 
intimates among those who are alienated from his Master. 
But a parent cannot repudiate his ^^^I'cntal relation be- 
cause his son becomes an " unbeliever ; " and neither can 
a friend repudiate a friend. When friendship has been 
formed previous to the existence of any such disturbing 
causes, the bond cannot be rudely broken. 

34* 



402 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

You would have done well to look into other passages. 
The New Testament prescribes, with that remarkable 
freedom from fanaticism, Avliich, if its writers were fanatics, 
is a very singular characteristic, the terms of intercourse 
with an unbelieving husband, w^ife, or child, and by parity 
of reason, with an unbelieving "friend;" and what coun- 
tenance is there for your taunt ? Nay, with the unbe- 
lieving world in general, Christianity not only permits the 
ordinary transactions of life, but enjoins, in all such trans- 
actions, that uniform courtesy, kindness, and benevolence 
which, in fact, involve all the offices of friendship, and 
must of necessity often lead to it. 

So far from the Christian being forbidden to come into 
contact with the "unbelieving" world, he is told the 
express contrary ; to forbid this would be to tell " him to 
go out of the world." It is only to a " brother that walks 
disorderly " that he is commanded to act thus ; with him 
"not even to eat," — neither to give or exchange hospi- 
tality. Now — alas that I should say so! you are no 
longer " a Christian brother," — but I insist on it that you 
shall still be a " friend." So you must suffer me to ad- 
dress you in the old style, and if it Avill at all accommodate 
your scruples, I will call you one that is "without," and 
certify to the fact that you are not a Christian. If this 
will not satisfy you, and I must needs proceed according 
to the rule Avith which you upbraid me, that of treating 
our offending brother as " a heathen man and a publican ;" 
still you will be pleased to recollect that it is after re- 
peated admonition that that is to be done, — and I have 
by no means " admonished " you enough yet. 

" Pray do it," I imagine you saying, " without the ad- 
monition." No — I shall not; I shall persist in bearing 
with your offences, not only the "seven times," but the 
" seventy times seven," before I finally release you. 



TO A DEIST 403 

So that, in fine, you see I am a "burr,"* and-^liall 
" stick." 

You let out the secret, I suspect, of your perverse 
scruples as to the possibility of our continued friendly 
intercqjarse. I say perverse, for there is seldom any 
scruj^le with gentlemen in your position — when you say 
that you hope, if we are to keep up our former corres- 
pondence, I am not going to trouble you with that " in- 
tolerable" subject, — the "evidences of Christianity!" 
This, and perhaps a little disposition to taunt me with the 
supjDOsed bigoted exclusiveness of the Christian rule, must 
account for your unusual scruples. 

As to the evidences of Christianity, never fear ; I am so 
far from intending to trouble you with them, that I am 
about to show you how you may annihilate Christianity 
altogether; not by directly attackiyig \\> — that, I regard, 
as proved by long experience to be useless — but by es- 
tablishing a better system ! As Leslie entitled his little 
tract " A short method with the Deists," so, if you choose 
to adopt the course I shall point out, you may call it, " A 
short way Avitli Christians," and I shall engage it will be 
effectual. 

You will say, perhaps, that it is necessary, first, to de- 
stroy Christianity before you can introduce a better sys- 
tem. Ah! my friend, do not wait for that. Christianity 
is so long a dying, that you Deists will all die before you 
have a chance of establishing your own system. You may 
say of the Gospel, as the desj^airing husband of his litigious 
wife : " I am tired of getting the better before she is tired 
of losing the victory." Take no heed to it, but proceed at 
once, as if it were non-existent, to show the world "a 
more excellent way ; " that dazzled world will then say of 
Deism, as comj)ared with Christianity, what Paul says of 



404 THE GREY SON LETTERS. 

Christianity as compared with Judaism: "It hath no 
glory," being eclii^sed by a " glory that excelleth." 

But I must first, in another letter or two, lay before you 
briefly some of the reaso9is on which I would advise you 
to raise the siege of Christianity. I know that ihe at- 
tacking party often has some advantage over those who 
act on the defensive, but not always ; and from the length 
and tediousness of this war, and various other reasons 
which I shall detail to you, I do not augur well for your 
success. A defensive war is not always so bad, — es- 
pecially if the besieged occuj^y a Gibraltar, and the be- 
siegers wooden fortresses and a fluctuating element ; 
above all, if it comes to red-hot shot into the bargain. 
There is something invigorating, I grant, in assault; but 
none in knocking one's head against stone walls. Now, 
without implying anything (that I may not ofiend you,) 
as to the truth of Christianity, I think it may be shown 
that the assault in this case is of that description. 

Yours faithfully, 

E. E. H. G. 

P. S. — You will perhaps think all the latter part of 
this letter mere badinage. I assure you I am most serious. 
Though I am convinced of the truth of Christianity, yet 
if it be false, I am as deeply anxious that it should be 
proved so, as you can be. I am persuaded (though I 
might be puzzled to give a reason for it in that case) that 
nothing but good can come out of Truth ; and therefore, 
if she still be at the "bottom of the Avell," let me have the 
advantage of your (or of any man's) wheel and axle to get 
the jade out. 

I am also deeply convinced that (f Christianity be false, 
the best method for proving it so is that I shall hereafter 
point out. 



TO A DEIST. 405 



LETTER XCII. 

TO THE SAME. 

1&52. 

My dear Friend, 

I am led to regard the assault on Christianity as hope- 
less — because I see that it has been continued for so 
many generations in vain; and esj)ecially that its ene- 
mies have had, for more than a century, every opportunity 
of doing their worst, — that is, of saying their worst, and 
'have achieved nothing. 

Nor can I, on the calmest survey, perceive on what 
grounds you can promise yourself a chance of success. 

You cannot say, as in other cases, " This religion sprang 
up in an unhistoric age, and among barbarous people." On 
the contrary, it entered the world amidst the light of lite- 
rature and civilization, and immediately began to prop- 
agate itself amongst the nations most renowned for both, 
as well as elsewhere. Christ appeared to the world, as he 
appeared to the aj^ostle on his way to Damascus, with a 
" light from heaven " at " noonday." 

You cannot say, as in other cases, "This religion is 
received only by a particular race or nation, and cannot 
travel out of it ; it is local, and like other similar religions, 
will die when political changes or military conquest shall 
try it." On the contrary, it has been adoi3ted by the most 
diverse races, by the most different nations, by Greeks, 
Romans, English, French, Germans, — by Barbarian and 
Civilized alike; by peoj^le distinguished by every con- 
ceivable variety of culture, laws, manners, climate ; and it 
has been retained in spite of political and military rev- 
olutions of the most confounding nature ; revolutions 
which have shivered into atoms a score of other religions. 



406 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

It dwells in every zone — under every forai of polity — 
its habitat would seem the bosom of humanity. 

You cannot say that " it has been adopted only by vulgar 
intellects, and without investigation." On the contrary, 
genius of the highest order among the most lettered and 
civilized of the nations, has, in ten thousand instances, 
calmly, after the fullest scrutiny, and w^ith the deepest 
knowledge of the laws of evidence, declared the proofs of 
its truth unassailable. The books that the literature of a 
dozen nations has contributed to its defence would alone 
make an immense library ! 

You cannot say that " its enemies have had no liberty of 
l^leading on the other side." On the contrary, from the 
earliest times downwards, and especially during the last 
century and a half, antagonists have appeared in all the 
most polished Christian nations, with the fullest liberty of 
employing every weapon, whether of ridicule or of argu- 
ment, against Christianity ; they have written thousands of 
books, not one in a hundred of which is remembered twenty 
years after its publication, and have constructed half a dozen 
theories, — reciprocally contradictory, it must be admitted, 

— of accounting in a natural w^ay for the origination of this 
troublesome religion. Some of the writers of such books, 

— as Gibbon and Voltaire, for example, — have on other 
grounds been of enormous popularity, and yet the position 
of Christianity remains much the same ! 

You cannot say " its enemies " have not a thousand times 
paraded the " discrepancies and contradictions " which you 
affirm exist in the Bible : for this they have been doing ever 
since the time of Porphyry and Celsus till now ; — yet, 
mortifying to relate ! without getting one in ten thousand 
to suppose that such discrepancies at all shake the histori- 
cal authority of the Scriptures. 

You cannot say that " The Book has not given you every 



TO A DEIST. 407 

advantage y " for never was there one which more irritates 
the pride and prejudices of mankind ; which presents greater 
obstacles to its reception, morally and intellectually ; — so 
that it is amongst the most unaccountable things to ??2e, not 
that it should be rejected by some, but that it should be 
accepted by any. " It is, I grant," said an old Deist, " a 
very strange thing that Christianity should be embraced; 
for Zdo not perceive in myself any inclination to receive 
the New Testament." There spake, not Deism only, but 

HUMAN NATURE. 

You cannot say, that like other religions, " Christianity 
panders to man's passions or vices, or promises him a sen- 
sual paradise." On the contrary, its morality is not easy^ 
its heaven by no means attractive, and its hell — very disa- 
greeable ! 

Similarly, you cannot say that intellectually, — especially 
for the last sceptical century or two, — it has not made your 
task, if it were feasible at all, as easy as possible ; for the 
wonders of the Old and New Testament, if not true^ are the 
very wildest of fables and romances ; — they equal — so 
some of you say — those of ^sop, of the Iliad, the " Ara- 
bian Nights," Ovid's " Metamorphoses." How mortifying, 
my friend, that you should have any difficulty in exploding 
such monstrous follies ! What if your greatest philosophers 
had in vain striven for twenty — nay, eighteen hundred 
years to show the world that Ovid's " Metamorphoses " 
were not to be received as literal facts ! Now it ought to 
be as easy, if your theory be true, to convince people that 
Shadrach, Meschech, and Abednego never came safe out of 
the fiery furnace, and that the " swine " never ran off with 
the " devils," or rather the " devils " never ran off with the 
" swine ! " One of two things must be conceded ; either 
the pressure of historical proof, — the marks of nature and 
sincerity in the New Testament must be irresistible, thus 



408 THE GEEYSON LETTERS. 

to prevent your success with those who, with you, reject 
all similar things in other cases as mere fables ; or else, if 
these things he fables, as you assert, — the folly of these 
capricious folks, — enlightened on all else, dark as midnight 
here, — must be indomitable, and your attempts to en- 
lighten them must be hopeless ! 

It is vain to say, " Oh ! but there are millions of men 
who believe millions of other extravagant fables." It is 
true ; but I must once more remind you that the way to 
measure the difficulty of disabusing Christians^ (and I fancy 
it will be a long time before your friends even attempt to 
disabuse anybody except Christians ; they leave Hindoos 
very quietly to themselves,) is to imagine a number of races 
and nations, as different in origin, culture, and language, 
and as distant in space, as those which have adopted Chris- 
tianity, all enamoured of the Vedas, say, — devoutly believ- 
ing them — ready to die for them — writing endless books 
to prove all their fables true ; men, among all these people, 
like Locke, Butler, Pascal, swearing, in the very focus of 
light and civilization, that the Vedas are all proved true, 
and accomplished sceptics among their very compatriots 
assailing them in vain ! Now w^hen you do find such a 
case, I should say what I say of your assaults on Christian- 
ity, — " You may as well leave the Vedas alone ; " which, 
by the way, I dare say the Deist loill do at any rate ; for, 
it seems, mankind may believe anything in the world, for 
any pains he will take to enlighten them, — except Chris- 
tianity ! 

I have just been reading a beautiful book now in course 
of pubhcation, which has suggested some reflections showing 
still more strongly (as I conceive) the hopelessness of your 
enterprise. But I must reserve them for another sheet 

Yours truly, 

E. E. II. G. 



TO A DEIST. 409 

LETTER XCIII. 

TO THE SAME. 

1852. 

My dear Friend, 

The book to which I referred in my last is Conybeare 
and Howson's beautiful work on the " Life and Epistles of 
Paul." 

The A23ostle Paul wrote, perhaps, nearly as mnch as 
would fill a volume of the " Traveller's Library," at least, 
if it were printed in a little larger type : or, to put the 
matter otlierwise, his compositions would make no less than 
three or four columns of the " Times' Debates ! " — surely 
a voluminous author. 

Yet he has had more thought, time, toil, and ingenuity, 
expended on him, — in the investigation of his history, and 
of the times in which he is supposed to have lived, — in the 
correction of his text, — in the criticism of his style, — in 
the illustration of his beauties — in the elucidation of his 
difficulties — than Plato, Aristotle, and Bacon, Homer, 
Virgil, Milton, and Shakspeare, all put together, volumin- 
ous and zealous as criticism on each of these authors has 
been. 

Now, I know just what you will say: "that when an 
author has so much written upon him and about him, it is 
an argument rather of his worthlessness than of his worth ; 
that, if his meaning were quite plain, and his merits unam- 
biguous, he might dispense with commentators." Very 
good ; but then be pleased to observe the consequence ; it 
will follow that St. Paul being the very worst, the writers 
just mentioned must be the next worst of the tribe ; for 
perhaps after him — though all at a distance immeasurable 
— the great writers I have named have most attracted the 
attention and stimulated the zeal of critics. And, furtlier, 

35 



410 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

in bar of any such brief solution of the paradox, it may be 
said that though the most worthless of writers may need 
most commentary, somehow they do not get it ; mankind 
go a shorter way to work with them, by quietly suffering 
them to sink to the bottom. It will be long before Black- 
more will enlist a Warburton or Malone in his service, or 
a Muggleton find a commentator in a Locke ! Least of all 
do men of widely different countries and races thus expend 
their energies, and, Avorse still, their money, in everlast- 
ingly translating and elucidating dull common-j^lace or ob- 
scure nonsense. 

Now, here is St. Paul in more languages than all the best 
classic authors put together ; and scores of writers in all 
the more cultivated modern tongues, — that is, among all 
the most civilized nations, — have been i3oring over the 
Apostle, and commenting upon him, Avithout end. The 
tractates and treatises on separate texts, — on single chaj:)- 
ters, — on single epistles, — on parts of them, — on the 
whole collectively ; — the commentaries on his life, charac- 
ter, and history, and on the churches he is supposedXo have 
founded : these writings, I say, gathered from all the lan- 
guages of Europe, would constitute an immense library ! 
An immense library spun out of a few tracts, which would 
have hardly made as much as a single play of Shaksj^eare 
or one of the longer of Plato's Dialogues ! tracts which, 
however, exist in twenty times as many languages as any 
production of these authors can be found in. \Yhatever 
may have been the case w^ith his Corinthian converts, the 
Apostle may certainly nov^ say of all mankind — "that he 
speaks with more tongues than they all!" 

Such a contrast between his scanty authorship, and his 
prodigious and enduring popularity — popularity whicli tlie 
most gigantic and aspiring genius may Aveli look at with 
despairing envy — is certainly a curious i^henomenon. 



TO A DEIST. 411 

These reflections have been forced upon me by Cony- 
beare and Howson's splendid vohimes. Two portly quar- 
tos ! While every other author is shrinking into duodeci- 
mos, Paul can still afford to come out in quarto, illustra- 
ted by all that the printer's and engraver's arts can do for 
him — accompanied by a large apparatus of maps and plates 
and plans, and with profuse impressions of gems and coins 
^and statues, and medals, and inscriptions. One author, I 
see, has expended a whole volume — think of that ! — on 
the single episode of Paul's last voyage to Rome, — Avhile 
the press teems with ever new works of critics and com- 
mentators on this curious tract- writer. 

Now, on the supposition, wdiich, for your sake, I of 
course take for granted, that the Apostle Paul was as little 
under the influence of preternatural inspiration as any other 
man, all this portentous absurdity of mankind is at least 
very perplexing and unaccountable. " Not at all," I ima- 
gine I hear you say. " It proves only the infinite folly of 
man, and the slowness and difticulty with which Truth gains 
admission to his mind." Very true ; if your theory be 
right, it proves that, sure enough ; but, as I think, some- 
thing more; even something like the impossibility of your 
disabusing the world by any direct means ; for if, at this 
time of day, in the most enlightened nations of Europe, — 
at an infinite remove, in point of race, customs, laws, edu- 
cation, from every thing that can create sympathy with 
the Jewish fanatic^ — in the midst of learning, knowledge, 
art, and science, you find men, and among them many of 
the most acute and comprehensive intellects, the most capa- 
ble of judging of evidence, still spell-bound by this des- 
perate delusion, how can you hope that it will be ever 
dissipated ? 

You will hardly say, I think, that it is only just now that 
the pretensions of Paul have been disputed. 



412 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

If you do, I beg to remind you that Herbert and Boling- 
broke, and Chubb, and Tindal, and Collins, and a host of 
Deists, derided and proscribed both Paul and his readers, 
for a whole century together ; and what was done in our own 
country was also doing in Holland, Germany, and France. 
Nothing can be more contemptible, in the estimate of a' 
number of Deists in all these countries for a century past,! 
than the " besotted admiration " of the writings of Paul 
and of Paul himself. Yet the tide of love and veneration' 
still flows on ; readers and writers go on poring over his 
alleged "impertinences and extravagances," just as if 
the great Deistical oracles had never spoken. Indeed, they 
might as well never have spoken, for no one, (unless it be 
one in a generation or so, very curious in the history of 
opinion,) ever deigns to look into them. If Bolingbroke, 
who declares St. Paul "a vain -glorious boaster," guilty of 
" great hyj^ocrisy and dissimulation," " obscure and unin- 
telligible," and where not so, " profane, absurd, and trifling," 
could rise from the dead, how would he be mortified to 
find how little he had afiected the conclusions of the world ! 
How vexed to think that while his own volumes are 
covered with dust and cobwebs, St. Paul speaks some scores 
of languages more than when Bolingbroke " sj^at " on his 
" Jewish gaberdine," and that a few thousand more volumes 
have been admiringly written about him than existed 
then! 

You recollect, no doubt, the amusing dream of GeoflE*rey 
Crayon in the Library at Westminster Abbey ; — how he 
fancied the books beginning to talk, and one little squab 
quarto, long buried and forgotten, after rustling its leaves 
and looking big, asking in a husky voice whether one "Will 
Shakspeare — a vulgar fellow and vagabond deerstealer, 
who enjoyed an unaccountable reputation in his time, was 
still remembered ? " He presumes he " soon sank into ob- 



TO A DEIST. 413 

llvion." Lord Bolingbroke might represent that little fat 
forgotten quarto : but even the popularity of Shakspeare 
faintly shadoAvs that enjoyed by the Jewish tent-maker. 

" Well," perhaps you will say, " and what of all this ? 
1 suppose you will next infer that an author whose * opera 
omnia ' are a few little tracts, — and those too (as many 
say) so worthless, so crammed with extravagance, nonsense, 
and obscurities, — must have been inspired^ because he has, 
in spite of all this, exerted such a prolonged and intense 
influence on the world." By no means, I mention the fact, 
indeed, as very curious and inexplicable ; but I have no in- 
tention of travelling beyond your hypothesis in the aj^- 
plication of it. On the supposition that Paul was not in- 
spired, one of two things is, I think, abundantly plain; 
either he must have been so prodigiously clever that men 
will never escape the toils in which he has caught them ; 
or they are such fools that you cannot hope to deliver them. 
On the latter alternative, you may declaim as much as you 
will against the infinite folly of man ; but then, I think, 
the corollary is the extreme difiiculty, not to say impossi- 
bility, of your ever directly counter-working this delusion ! 
Praj' make much of it ; let it even be a melancholy solace 
to the Deist, — Avho, after so long a time and so much 
labor, has done so little in that enterj^rise to which he has 
committed himself He has in truth much " need of j^a- 
tience ; " he must Avait in all probability for many weary 
ages before this curious insanity of mankind will become 
extinct. 

The Deist should at least, carefully abstain from insisting 
that the Apostle Paul has nothing or little in him, — be- 
cause that only makes matters worse ; the delusion is all 
the greater and the more hopeless of cure ; he ought 
rather to insist that the Apostle's grandeur and sublimity 
of character and sentiment, — his eloquence and genius, 

35* 



414 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

his magnanimity and virtue, his benevolence and his 
pathos, — were inconceivably great, and thus it is that lie 
has inveigled the world into its sui^erstitious homage. On 
second thoughts, however, it is dangerous to give the 
Deist advice on this point ; for it is attended with difficul- 
ties. It is a delicate topic looked at in any light; for //' 
Paul was such a man, however it may aj^pear to account 
for the besotted reverence for the AjDostle felt by the world, 
it greatly aggravates every difficulty when we come to con- 
sider how a man thus admirably endowed came to be either 
so knavish, or so cracked ; so knavish if he i:)ropagated, 
without believing, that false system of doctrines by which 
he has deluded men ; so cracked, if he jn-opagated because 
he believed it! If, on the other hand, he be the profane, 
absurd, and trivial writer Bolingbroke makes him out, it 
proves that mankind in general — amongst them multitudes 
even of the highest genius — must be such fools in having 
been befooled by such a fool, that you cannot hope they 
will ever be wiser ! I know what you will say : " Millions 
upon millions of men have believed other false systems of 
religion." I grant it ; but what you have got to show is some 
such thing as this; millions upon millions of men, of the 
most diverse races and ages, and amongst them men of the 
acutest intellect and the most liberal culture, — English, 
Scotch, French, Germans, Dutch, — including men like 
Bacon, Newton, Locke, Butler, Leibnitz, — madly bent on 
believing, expounding, embracing, and if necessary dying 
for, some such books as the Vedas or the Koran ! Take 
my advice, — leave Christianity alone, and steer on a dif- 
ferent tack. 

Yours truly, 

K. E. H. G. 



TO A DEIST. 415 

LETTER XCIV. 

to the same. 
My dear Friexd, 

Before I proceed to my promised counsels, let me offer 
a remark or two on your recent letter. You say, as if it 
afforded you hope, that, after all, the gi'eat mass of Chris- 
tians know but little of the " Evidences of Christianity," 
and are incapable of entering into them. I must show you 
that this affords, and can afford, you no hope of success ; 
rather the contrary, considering that what they are thus 
content to believe with, it seems, so little knowledge of 
the v^liy^ goes, as I have remarked, des^Dcrately against the 
grain of human nature ! 

But further; what you insist on does not affect the fact that 
many of the most comprehensive minds have deliberately 
examined the " Evidences," and their authority naturally 
weighs with men in general who have not ; indeed these 
men are as impregnably intrenched in their reasons for be- 
lief, as they would be if they were as learned as Paley or 
Lardner himself. They may not be always able to analyze 
their convictions — their logic may want a voice — but if 
they could speak their feelings, each would say something 
like this : " You taunt me with jdelding much to authority — 
well, to some extent I must, by your own argument, do so 
in relation either to you or those who opj^ose you ? And 
why should I defer to you rather than your ojiponents ? — 
To one or other, by your own showing, I must defer. You 
tell me that I am unable to enter into the Historic Evi- 
dences for Christianity with any success, or with any pre- 
tensions to give an independent oj^inion on the subject. I 
confess it, and for the same reasons I am unable to pro- 
nounce on the validity of your arguments against it; just 



410 ■»>' TUE GEEYSON LETTERS. 

as I am also unabie to pronounce on any one of those me- 
tajDhysical riddles which are involved in the systems which 
you present to me for my choice — your half-dozen theories 
of Deism; as, for example, whether it be true, as some say, 
that I am immortal, or, as others sny, that I am not; 
whether there be a Providence that takes cognizance of all 
my actions, or no such thing. On a score of such questions 
tny natural light does not enable me to pronounce so as to 
justify me in wrangling with you about them. On all such 
points, I am just as impotent to form an indei^endent 
opinion as on the evidences of Christianity — though I 
have some shrewd guesses about the contradictions among 
your theories. I am a plain man ; I have no more time or 
ability to enter into these subtleties, than into the deep crit- 
ical questions which you say are involved in the investi- 
gation of the Truth of the Gospel. I confess that one of 
my chief arguments, though not the only one, is drawn 
from authority ; from what they say who have, as I believe, 
gone thoroughly into all these matters ; and I am puzzled 
to know why I should rather believe you when you tell me 
that the Gosj^el is false than them when they tell me it is 
true. I cannot conceive that the original authors of Chris- 
tianity had any motives to deceive the world, and as little 
why these defenders of it should deceive me. As to hnowl- 
edge and character^ I cannot, for the life of me, say that 
Bolingbroke is worthier of my attention than Butler ; Tom 
Paine than Paley; Yoltaire than Pascal; Hobbes than 
Locke. But pray don't suppose that Authority is my only 
or chief reason for belief. No, I believe because I cannot hel}^ 
it : as I read the Gospels and the Epistles, in spite of many 
things nature does not like, I can't Jieljy belicAdng them 
true. They are so stamped with honesty and guileless 
simplicity — with such an inimitable air of truth, that if 
they lie, Nature herself has lied, and deceived I must be. 



TO A DEIST. 417 

As I read Paul, as I see his candor, his pathos, liis mag- 
nanimity, his noble charity, his loving, burning, earnest 
Avords, I cannot but believe what he says. Nor is that 
all ; — I feel that the doctrines are so beyond human inven- 
tion, and so nnlikely to be invented, if not beyond it — 
the morality so pure and elevated — the appeals to my 
spiritual consciousness so jirofound, — that I cannot belicA^e 
the Gospel false. Nor is that all — myriads of ns will cry, 
and it is the most resistless argument of all, " You may 
talk on for ever, but we have seen, have felt^ the transform- 
ing power of Christianity — * We speak that Ave do know, 
and testify that Ave haA^e seen.' " 

For the reasons detailed in the last few letters, I, for one, 
fully belicA^e that the assault on Christianity Avill be lost 
time. What I think you ought to do, I Avill now slioAV you. 
As to Christianity, leave it alone, to do its Avorst or its best. 

Yours truly, 

E. E. II. G. 



LETTER XCV. 

TO THE SAME. 

My DEAR Feiend, 

And now, leaving Christianity to its own dcA^ices, let ns 
consider the system of religious truth Avhich you say com- 
mends itself to your reason at present ; I Avill, then, give 
you my promised hints for securing its currency in the 
Avorld. 

You tell me that you are no longer satisfied that Chris- 
tianity is a preternatural and authoritati\^e revelation ; — 
rather, that you suspect the contrary, though yon frankly 
own dissatisfaction with the theories hitherto struck out, to 
account, by ordinary causes for its origin, characteristics, 



418 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

and success. You say, at the same time, that you are 
deeply impressed with the value and importance of " Reli- 
gion," as the " highest style of man ; " more than ever con- 
vinced of the great truths of " Natural Religion " (as it is 
called), and that they ought to exercise a deep practical in- 
fluence over the life ; that of such truths you account these 
the chief: — the existence of a Supreme Being, Infinite in 
all perfections; the necessity and duty of every rational 
creature's knowing, loving, obeying, and worshipping Him ; 
the immediate access of every soul of man, without any 
" figment of mediation," at all times to Him ; the certainty 
of His forgiveness of any and of all offences against either 
Himself, the supreme Lawgiver, or any of our fellow-sub- 
jects, on confession and repentance, and, when possible, 
restitution ; and the probability (in your opinion, certainty) 
of a future life, to give these truths effect. In brief, you 
tell me that these truths, — not to be received simply into 
the understanding as a mere creed, but to be practical over 
the whole life of man, as habitual principles of action, — 
constitute the sum of any rational religious system. Now 
this system is, in effect, (as you confess,) identical with that of 
Lord Herbert, — given to the world two centuries and more 
ago. You seem also to think, Avitli him, that these principles 
are the undoubted dictates of man's religious nature — "in 
nate" in Lord Herbert's vocabulary, intuitional in yours; and 
if not uttered prior to all instruction, yet universally devel- 
oped, as the mind itself developes, under the action of the 
ordinary stimulants of the religious faculty, and needing no 
special Divine intervention either to elicit them or to give 
them authority ; that these principles, the various religious 
systems which have prevailed in the world, have more or 
less distinctly recognized, and have contributed to extricate 
more or less successfully. You further think that Chris- 
tianity was the most effectual attempt, till then made, at 



TO A DEIST. 419 

tlie coinplete extrication of these truths ; that it may liave 
been a " necessary stage " in the transition from the more 
imperfect forms of reUgion, but that now it is necessary no 
longer ; that the beautiful structure of a " rational " religion, 
being happily complete, the scaffolding may be thrown 
down ! This seems, in brief, to be your view. 

And so, I suppose, the Uttle flower-pot of the Gospel, and 
all the other little flower j^ots of other religions, in which 
the oak-seedling Avas planted, being but crockery ware, 
have yielded to the expansive power of the Divine vegeta- 
tion, have been shivered to pieces, and may now be thrown 
away ; that as the " law " is said by the " imaginative " 
Paul to be a schoolmaster to bring us to Christ, so Chris- 
tianity was a schoolmaster to bring us to Lord Herbert ! — 
though how it should need Lord Herbert, or anybody else, 
to teach any man truths which every man intuitively knows, 
passes my comprehension ; or, if any such teacher is needed, 
whether may we not need a better ? 

How many questions might I ask, naturally suggested by 
such a theory ! I miglit ask you how" it came to pass that 
truths, which you say are the natural dictates of the human 
mind, came to be so slowly extricated, and to be even now, 
by the majority of mankind, so obscurely apprehended ; I 
might ask you how so many of them came to be, and still 
are, so constantly disputed, doubted, denied, perverted ; I 
might ask how it was that the infinitely different and gro- 
tesque systems of religion w^hich have prevailed in the w'orld, 
heing themselves the product of mail's religious nature^ have 
exhibited, instead of a bright reflection and image of these 
" intuitional truths," the grossest caricature of them. I 
miglit ask you how it is that those " historical " and " tra- 
ditional " religions, to which you so conveniently attribute 
man's tardy recognition of these truths, could ever have 
originated on such a theory as yours ; since the said reli- 



420 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

gions, pernicious as they may be, are nothing external to 
man ; they are, his own work ; he has created — he has 
wrought them ; though, on your theory, the glorious intui- 
tions of which you speak, and which, amid the infinite load 
of lies and fables, are native still to the human heart, must 
have stared him in the face the while ! I might ask you 
how it is, that even in the best of these fabrications, — as 
the religion of Moses and the religion of Christ, — man has 
exhibited so great a knack of corrupting rather than of im- 
j)roving them, so that Judaism became buried in Rabbinism, 
and Christianity in Popery. I might ask you how it is that, 
when these truths were presented to him, he has not been 
able even to conserve them, but has deliberately stifled them 
in a mass of ridiculous fables and superstitions, for which he 
is not only willing to vouch, but to die ? I might ask you 
how it was that the abuses of " historical religion " began, 

— that those pernicious customs and practices were sanc- 
tioned, by the intervention of which you account for the 
dimming of man's internal light ? — how he came to origi- 
nate them ? If, as some of your wise men of Gotham say, 
man began upon all fours, as the very lowest savage, and 
gradually improved himself into a very gross idolater, — I 
might ask, in that case, how his internal light could well 
have been dhmned^ and how I am to reconcile the fact with 
the universal possession of your intuitional truths which 
need no revelation ? or whether, if we had seen the abori- 
ginal savage moping and mowing, and adoring his new- 
created Deity in the form of a bright stone or a cockle shell 

— we could imagine him to be illuminated with your in- 
ternal light ? I might ask, if he was so illuminated, how it 
was that his spiritual faculty did not prevent him from thus 
playing the fool ? — though, perhaps it may be said that the 
unutterable debasement in which he was created, — how 
the Divme benevolence is to be acquitted is quite another 



TO A DEIST. 421 

question, — fairly put his "intuitions" to flight, as indeed 
such a night of tempest as that in which he is supposed to 
have been born raiglit well have extinguished even a brighter 
flame than that of his little flickering lamp! If this theory 
be rejected, (as I think you will not accept it,) then I might 
ask how it was that man's originally bright mtuitionai can- 
dle came to burn dim and to want snuffing? How it was 
that coming fresh from his Creator's hand and just fitted uj) 
with his spiritual apparatus, he did not, however slowly, de- 
velope in the order of his faculties, but brutishly turned a 
deaf ear to them, and fell, — and still falls, under the do- 
minion of lie and fable ; — that the first act of this perverse 
dolt should be to kneel down to stocks and stones ; — that 
he should be, in such infinite ways, and for such weary ages, 
such a fool and madman ? And lastly, I might surely ask 
how it is that when " in these last days," the Truth which 
is so perfectly " congruous," is at length extricated, per- 
verse man is so reluctant to receive it that, since Lord Her- 
bert's days, those who have acquiesced in his theory may 
be reckoned by units, and those who have doubted or re- 
jected it in favor of historical religions, or none, by millions ; 
or how it is that amongst those who have, with him and 
you, rejected Christianity, scarcely half a dozen together 
receive this system, — which is so perfectly " congruous to 
man's nature," — but dispute about it eternally ; about the 
existence of God Hmiself ; about His unity and personality; 
His nature and perfections ; about the relations of man to 
Him ; about man's responsibility, desthiies, immortality : 
I might ask .... but there is no end to the questions that 
might be asked ; and as I fear there would be little chance 
of getting an answer, I will ask none of them. 

To content yourself with affirming that you intuitively 
know all the truths you make the sum of your theology, 
that they aro all self-emdoit^ would be, in the face of the 

36 



422 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

entire religious history of man — oftlie inconceivably tardy 
process by which your little system has been developed, — 
the infinitesimal part of mankind that has yet been brought 
to acquiesce in it, — the infinite disputes about its parts 
among the few who do, — something perfectly preposterous. 
I conceive, therefore, you cannot be too grateful to me for 
waiving all the above questions. 

Neither will it sufiice to tell me that some questions of 
similar nature can be addressed to me resj^ecting Chris- 
tianity; I answer, Not so. You may say, That too lias 
been tardily embraced, — has been disputed about, — has 
been corrupted. I answer. Yes ; and naturally, for it pro- 
ceeds upon just the contrary liypothesis to yours ; it assumes 
that man was incapable of adequately extricating religious 
truth — that he was " wandering from the way," and needed 
to be set right ; that he was corrupt, and required to be 
reformed ; that he " loved darkness rather than light," and 
therefore recoiled from the light. All this is natural on 
the hypothesis of Christianity. But the questions I ask of 
you are unanswerable on yours." 

You must not, therefore, be surprised when you speak so 
confidently of your religious system, that men should ask 
you many such troublesome questions as I have indicated. 

But from me fear nothing. I will act on the compact I 
have made with you, and shall not trouble you with con- 
troversy. Neither shall I even taunt you with the incon- 
ceivable difl^cidty with which man seems to be got to 
embrace any such system as yours. I shall charitably sup- 
pose that some mysterious obstacles have hitherto stood in 
the way of man's " natural reception " of perfectly " natural 
truth" when propounded to liim; — though I confess it 
seems to me, on your theory, as wonderful as that a hun- 
gry man should refuse bread, or a thirsty man water. How- 
ever, I vhU suppose, for your benefit and that of the world, 



TO A DEIST. 423 

that now, fit least, the truth has been fully developed, and 

that it is destined to go on, as you say, " conquering and to 

conquer." The next thing is to ask, how it shall be made 

triumphant ? My notions of what will need be done I 

will give you in another letter or two. 

Yours faithfully, 

E. E. n. G. 



LETTER XCVI. 

TO THE SAME. 



1852. 



My dear Friend, 

You cannot but see, I think, the immense advantaire 
which the dominant religions of the earth, as Mahom- 
etanism, Hindooism, Christianity, have enjoyed from the 
230ssession of " Books," — the Koran, the Vedas, the Bible, 
— in which their doctrines are not only solemnly and 
permanently recorded, but embodied in forms more or 
less fitted to impress the fancy and excite emotion. The 
first suggestion, therefore, which I would offer to you and 
your co-religionists is just to compile a " Bible " of your 
own ; a book that shall exactly mirror, neither more nor 
less, the religious truth which, as some of you say, is in- 
tuitively known to each man, and which the rest of you 
admit is, at all events, instantly recognized on j^resentation 
to the mind. If the former theory be true, you may think 
you ought to be exempted from any such task, as a work 
of supererogation. That conclusion, however, would be 
rash and unwise ; since we see, in fact, the use of external 
instruments in the disengagement even of our most 
elementary cognitions; and certainly in all cases, tlie 
value of such aid in making Truth more vivid, — in giving 



424 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

it the empire of association and imagination, — is obvious 
enough. This we see illustrated in the history of systems 
of religious err or ^ as you deem them ; and of religious 
truths as I deem Christianity ; these systems retain their 
hold in a very great measure from the possession of Sacred 
Books ; and you, if you do not wish to work at a disad- 
vantage, will also condescend to compile your Bible. 

And I need hardly say that if the objections of your 
confraternity be well founded ; — if our Bible be charac- 
terized by the exceeding want of symmetry, and just 
develoj^ment, and system which you attribute to it ; if it 
be so egregiously disfigured by mutilated truth, positive 
error, foolish and lying legends, puerile and superstitious 
matter, — you will have a prodigious advantage over it; 
you may even learn from its A^ery errors. What accuracy 
of statement, what elevation of sentiment, what ethical 
purity, what philosophic justness, may we not expect in 
your new Organum of Keligious Truth ! 

You will say, perha])s, "But the difficulty will be to 
obtain unanirnity amongst us. We are not less divided, — 
and on far more imi^ortant points, — than the Christians 
themselves." 

If I were not aware of it, I should certainly with un- 
feigned wonder receive the news, and even deny its pos- 
sibility, considering that your theory i)roclaims religious 
truth to be but the reflection and echo of the intuitions of 
universal humanity! But as I do know it, — as I know, 
from intimate acquaintance with the whole series of your 
jnincipal writers, — some of whom say that man is im- 
mortal — some that he is not; some that if he be so, there 
is no sufficient proof of it ; some that there is a special 
Providence — some that there is none; some that Avorship 
is required, some that it is not; some that prayer is a duty, 
and some that it is even an absurdity ; some that actions 



TO A DEIST. 425 

are prohibited which others believe innocent ; some that 
universal annihilation awaits man at death and some, 
universal happiness; — as I say I do know all this, I shall 
express no surprise; nor shall I taunt you with it, for bo 
the taunt ever so just, it can afford you no help, — which 
I am so anxious to proffer — to do so. Nor has it, in 
truth, any bearing on the present topic ; inasmuch as such 
diversity does not diminish the necessity of the method it 
will be your wisdom to adopt. You must surely have 
some — be they many or few, — who sympathize suffi- 
ciently with your views of what are "the* universal intu- 
itions of humanity," to enable them to act in unison ; or 
are you, indeed, my dear friend, in solitary possession of 
the only exact transcript of our " universal intuitions ? -' 
But even if this were the case there would be no help for 
it ; even then you must go forth, — a knight-errant of 
spiritual chivalry, — alone; but take a few with you, if 
you can. 

Only remember, that whether you can or not, your 
system, if you really wish to supplant Christianity, and 
establish another and better system in its place, must be 
exhibited in dazzling light beside the New Testament, and 
compel mankind to feel how great the superiority ! 

And by the way, I would just hint, that though perliaps 
not absolutely necessary to the Deist's " Bible," it would 
be eminently desirable (if possible) to give some conjec- 
tures, not perhaps more certain, but at least more plau- 
sible, than your writers have generally given, as to the 
origin and original condition of man ; — such as shall 
quite throw into the shade, by comparison, the Scripture 
account of man's primeval rectitude, temptation, and fall. 
Men feel an intense interest in this problem from the 
present evil condition of the world ; and I assure you they 
don't like the "primeval savage" theory at all. That 

30* 



426 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

man came from Lis gracious Creator's own hand in tlie 
guise of something much worse tlian an Australasian or 
Hottentot; crawled, grubbed, gibbered, and jabbered for 
nobody knows how long, till by slow degrees he improved 
himself into an ordinary savage, kindled a fire, boiled his 
acorns, consecrated a sacred monkey for his God, and 
found that he could utter other sounds than " Yah Yah," 
— this theory, I say, gives such a rej^ellent view, not only 
of your aboriginal man, — but of the God that so fashioned 
him, and expressly ybr such a most miserable destiny, tliat 
mankind will never away with it; no, not even if it Avere 
shown, (thougli both si^eculation and fact confute it,) that 
utter saA'ages could develope themselves into civilized crea- 
tures without external teaching! Most desirable is it to 
renounce this theory, and give a more plausible account of 
man's original condition (as a key to his present) than 
Deism has hitherto given. If you could also settle that 
little matter, (unhappily so questioned among you,) of 
"man's immortality," it would be as well. But this by 
the way ; and I proceed to other and more necessary 
chaiacteristics of your Bible. 

You should, at all events, establish such a compre- 
hensive, perspicuous, just system of religious and ethical 
truth, — of the "intuitions of universal humanity," — and 
so arranged and expressed, as at once to eclij^se that of the 
New Testament; — which, if your representations of the 
New Testament be true, initst^ as I say, be the easiest of 
all tasks. But further; considering the influence of fancy, 
association, and the very forms of expression in giving 
vividness and power to man's conceptions of Truth, I 
think your Bible should exhibit it in forms at least as at- 
tractive as those of the New Testament; adapted alike to 
the highest and the lowest intellects, and capable of ready 
transfusion into all laniiuao-es. 



TO A DEIST. 427 

Again; considering the notorious influence which a 
certain vivid embodiment of a Moral Ideal., exhibited in 
dramatic action, has exerted, I think it would be well that 
you should also exhibit such an ideal; — such a delin- 
eation as wauld at once arrest and fascinate the gaze of 
humanity more j^erfectly than the One Only Portrait 
which so many have hitherto pronounced inimitable and 
divine. I admit, indeed, that in consequence of the tra- 
ditional veneration which the world already entertains for 
that picture, your ideal may for a while labor under some 
disadvantage ; but surely, as so. many of your writers have 
insisted that there are manifold and manifest blemishes in 
the earlier one, and have even thought that, after all, it is 
by no means a perfect, indeed a very defective, repre- 
sentation of absolute virtue and moral loveliness, you can, 
by rectifymg the errors and presenting a still more fault- 
less picture, counterpoise this adventitious advantage, I 
am so charmed with the idea, that I am quite impatient 
to see the thing done ! 

It Avill be a foolish modesty of you, — cultivated and 
able men as you are, — to \vhom all literature is open, and 
with such a model to improve upon, to decline this task; — 
nay, it will be ridiculous, considering what Galilean Jews, 
in your estimation grossly ignorant, have done unaided; 
and more than once — nay, four several times. To be 
beaten by the^ii — think of the shame of it ! 1 cannot for 
a moment imagine that you will have the slightest diffi- 
culty in the matter, — if your theory of the origin of the 
Gospel he true! 

There is one thing, however, I would earnestly caution 
you against; do not let your imaginative forms be so 
exquisite as to make mankind take them, as they have 
done tlie "inythical or fictitious element" in the New 
Testament (your theory supposes it is legendary or licti- 



428 THE GREYSON" LETTERS. 

tious,) for genuine history; do not, I warn yon, so tran- 
scend Homer and Shakspeare (for even their creations 
were never in danger of being so misinterpreted,) as to 
make i>eoi)le fancy your fable, fact ; or else, not only will 
you fail of your object, but will have added unexpectedly 
another to the many historical religions. On remarking 

to our friend S , the other day, that this would be a 

necessary result of any such fatal mistake, lie said, laughing, 
that he thought there was not much fear of it, and that 
my caution was superfluous. " Still," said I, " since the 
thing has been done (inte^itionally or not) according to 
the theory of these reformers, it seems but wise and kind 
to put them on their guard. It would be mortifying to 
haA'e the world deluded a second time." 

These charms of the imaginative element I think it the 
more important to insist uj^on, because, as you are aware. 
Deism has been hitherto at such cruel disadvantage, from 
the absence of them. Such dreary, pithless, marrowless, 
old speculators as the elder Deists have seldom been seen ; 
to look through their systems of " natural religion " is like 
looking at a hortus siccus y' through the dry crackling 
leaves no vital succulent- juices circulate. On the other 
hand, the semblance of " spiritual sentiment and unction " 
which characterizes the modern Deistical school is such 
shiftless, hopeless plagiarism from the Bible, that it all 
reads like imitation. Their books are like a Chinese 
pagoda stuck over with crosses and saints stolen from a 
Christian cathedral. 

You can hardly imagine — I find it very difiicult to do 
so myself — what an effect even a j^oem like Milton's 
"Paradise Lost," or a book like Bunyan's "Pilgrim's 
Progi-ess," if conceived and executed on Deistical prin- 
ciples, would have, though felt to be only works of imag- 
ination May we not hoj^e for such things at least? 



TO A DEIST. 429 

Will you be beaten not only by "fishermen," but by 
"tinkers?" 

Under what advantages, on the whole, would you 
construct your system! universally a2:)pealing to nothing 
less than "intuitions!" philosophically just in method, — 
adorned by all the lights and beauties of imagination, and 
relieved from all the errors and absurdities which crowd 
the New Testament! You would have no adventitious 
authority, indeed, but then that is precisely what you do 
not want, and renounce; it would be Truth herself — 
merely suitably arrayed. Who could fail to be enamoured 
with her charms ? 

As Mahomet reminded his followers that the style alone 
of the Koran was enough to 23rove it divine — so the suh- 
stance of your Koran would be a yet more conclusive 
argument; — not insj^ired, indeed, in the vulgar sense — 
but at once recognized, according to your theory, to be the 
full, fair reflection, the clear echo of the " universal intui- 
tions of humanity." 

Yours truly, 

R. E. H. G. 

P. S. — If you could also get a few of your poetical 
friends to give us a trifle or two of Deistical " Hymnology," 
it might be as well. You see how varied and pathetic are 
the devotional strains to which the Psalter of the Hebrew 
Poet-King has given rise. How is it that your whole 
Deistical literature is so utterly powerless over the imagina- 
tion and the heart? I long to see a new "Psalter" from 
some poetic Tindal or Collins. 



430 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

LETTER XCVII. 

to the same. 
My dear Friend, 

I deem it, next, of much moment, if you would deistically 
evangelize the world, that you should find some method of 
orp^anizing yourselves into social unities ; this is absolutely 
necessary if you would accomplish any object in common, 
or, in such a chilly climate as yours, keep your sympathies 
for one another from freezing. The world, at present, does 
not believe in your capacity to fasten on social human na- 
ture, or to give effect to your hopes of diffusing the bless- 
ings of a " rational i:)iety." Deism is looked on as a nega- 
tive, not a positive thing, — an explosive and destructive, not 
a centripetal or an organizing force. It is precisely here 
that in all its forms it has hitherto so ignominiously failed ; 
nevertheless till its advocates cease to live in such dreary 
isolation as scattered units, — till it can bind together its 
human atoms, and give them compact shape and coherence, 
— till it can breathe into men a spark of enthusiasm, and 
inflame and intensify emotion by inspiring a common sym- 
pathy in common objects, it will never be a thing of influ- 
ence at all ; how much less an instrument of regenerating 
the world ! 

A few trifling and partial achievements, here and there, 
of the destructive kind, — the cutting off now and then a 
straggler who has strayed from the camp of "historical 
religions " — that is all it must expect to accomplish, till it 
reheves itself from the old and just reproach of being in- 
capable of insj^iring common sympathies and prompting to 
united action. 

How happy the change if you succeed in organizing your 
deistical friends ! Soon shall we see numerous " Churches," 



TO A DEIST. 431 

■ — I beg pardon, "Temples" I mean, — rising in our land ; 
crowded to hear the new and true evayyiXiov, by wliicli the 
old fashioned Gospel is to be supplanted and eclipsed ! No 
doubt they will be in a plain yet majestic style of architec- 
ture, — befitting the mingled grandeur and simplicity of the 
new institute ; adorned with everything in their structure 
and style which can minister to austere beauty. As to the 
funds, — who can hesitate to believe they will be easily sup- 
plied by that lavish benevolence which a system so pure 
and glorious cannot fail to excite ? 

It w^ere a scandal to doubt it. If even the poorest and 
meanest superstition of the ancient or the modern world ; 
if Christianity, in its most corrupt forms as well as in its 
purest, can induce their votaries, according to their means, 
and " beyond them," to cover the "world with the structures 
and the apparatus of religious worship, w^hat may we not 
hope from that more perfect theory of religion with wdiich 
you and your compeers are about to bless the nations ? A 
beginning should, I think, be made without delay. Let 
some edifice, caj^able of holding at least three or four score 
(that, for a time, may be quite enough,) be built as a model 
"Fane" of your true deistical worship. 

I am perfectly aware, of course, of the arguments by 
which such an attempt at organization may be met. But I 
cannot admit that, if the great achievements you hope for 
are ever to be realized, those objections are to be listened 
to. You must move, if you would be successful ; and re- 
member for your encouragement, that scarcely more than a 
hundred Christians met in a certain "upper room" at 
Jerusalem some 1800 years ago ! 

It may be said (and I concede the force of the argument) 
that it is impossible to make a formidable organization out 
of a few score of people, appearing, sporadically, in the 
course of a century or so. I cannot deny the mournful 



432 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

tr.uth of the statement ; but since you mnst make a begin- 
ning, you must not lay any stress on this fact. You must 
use the elements you have, such as they are, — many or few. 
The tardy growth, or rather stunted 7io growth of Deism, 
the paucity of the proselytes it has been capable of making 
during three centuries, tem2:)ts Christians to taunt it as a 
thing of nought. Ought you not to infer, with your views 
of its self-recommending excellence, that its want of success 
s^irings from the absence of that positive effort and positive 
machinery, for the necessity of which I plead ? If you 
doubt, that when exhibited and enforced as it ought to be, 
it would commend itself to the human heart, — slowly, 
perhaps, but surely, — you not only give sorry proof of 
your faith in the doctrine of " Progress," but will e\en lead 
people to suspect that your truth is not so " congruous " to 
the human soul after all ; and that the doleful representa- 
tions of Christians as to the "depravity of human nature," 

are too well founded. 

Yours truly, 

K. E. II. G. 



LETTER XCVIII. 

TO THE SAME. 

1852. 

My dear Friend, 

Many other suggestions I could offer, but I will content 
myself with one more. Could you not manage, then, to 
get uj^, among your Deistical friends, a little missionary 
" steam," and make a trip or two to the heathen ? It does 
seem strange to all Christendom that the infinite forms of 
error and pollution, in which the nations are Avallovring, 
should always have been viewed by your Deistical friends 
with such profound apathy ; that not the slightest eflbrt 



TO A DEIST. 433 

should liave been made on your part to diffuse among mis- 
erable Polytlieists the only pure system ; that you should 
have had no sacred ambition to become reformers and ben- 
efactors of the world ! If it be said, " We have enough to 
do to convert Christians " — that is true ; more than enough, 
I should say ; but then, you perceive, Christians wont be 
converted ; and so, having preached the truth to these 
obstinate folks, faithfully, but without effect, you, like the 
Apostle Paul in relation to the Jews, are absolved from 
further effort, and should " turn to the Gentiles." Why 
should they be deprived of the benefit of the univer- 
sal religion you have to preach, because these Jew-like 
Christians will not hear it ? If it be said, though I fancy 
yoit will not say, — " The heathen are very well, — Hindoos 
and Caffres, — with their idols and absurdities, let them 
alone," — the same argument surely will do for Christicms^ 
let them alone ; if a Polynesian, is well off with his gross su- 
perstitions, surely a Christian must be better off, — at least 
as well. Why so anxious to subvert Christianity ? On 
this account, therefore, as well as for the other reasons I 
have mentioned, leave it alone. 

If you -say, " Why, the fact is, the mission of Deism is 
simply destructive ; burning down, not building houses, is 
our vocation — and that is easiest done in the next street ; 
— why should we go to other lands when we can fling our 
torches into our neighbors' doors and windows ? " — this, 
if true, is surrendering the Avhole question. It is confirm- 
ing the world in its impression that your system Avas never 
destined to be a ''''poioer " in the world ; while, as I have 
shown you in previous letters, even your destructive efforts 
somehow do not succeed ; the incendiary match is always 
going out — the Deistical gunpowder is always damp. 

Can it be imagined that you will have much difliculty in 
obtaining funds for a moderate Missionary experiment, 

37 



434 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

considering the importance of the object ? Many, I know, 
are disposed to think it. Prove them in the wrong. It is 
true one sometimes hears the philanthropic Deist making 
hglit of any such vulgar modes of manifesting spiritual ac- 
tivity. " That activity is not to be measured," it is sublimely 
said, " by any such base estimate. Let the vulgar lay stress 
on Bible and Missionary societies, and the other caarse 
machinery of an ordinary Christian philanthrophy, if they 
will, and parade in Reports, and Platform rhodomontade, 
the money which they have wheedled out of the pockets 
of the peojile ; but a pure lover of ' spiritual truth ' will 
appraise at the true value such odious modes of promoting 
its diffusion." This is ail very fine, but it will not avail you ; 
odious as may be the machinery of Christian zeal — vile as 
may be the talk about " money," and the appeals for it, — 
still, as long as it is true that the things in question cannot 
be done icithout money, (as nothing indeed can be done 
without cost, and the said money is but a part of it, ) — 
money must be had, and you must be content to remain in- 
significant if you cannot obtain it. 
In the next place," vulgar" as money may be, it is, and is gen- 
erally taken to be, a tolerably just index of the sincerity and 
strong convictions of those who give it : of the sacrifices they 
are willing to make for any object, if they cannot make them 
in the form of personal effort. Men are generally sui:)posed, 
(I imagine not erroneously,) to love their money as well as 
most things ; their hankering for that which represents 
the value of all things besides, is at least as strong as that 
for any of the things it represents. And so, when it is freely 
given, men Avill continue to think that the love of that for 
which it is given is very sincere, and the sense of its value 
very strong ; and when it is ?iO(f given, or given grudgingly, 
men will take it as a proof— a very vulgar one, it may be, 
but still a 2^^^oof — ^^v^X those Avho thus grudge it do not 



TO A DEIST. 435 

care about the things they profess to adimre and love, and 
are not solicitous that they should be victorious in the 
world. 

Now, if Christians can under the prompting of their lov:i 
system — low as compared with yours — voluntarily expend 
year by year, so much of their gains on the propagation of 
tlie Gospel to the uttermost ends of the earth, it can be no 
difficult thing for you, and those who think with you, to 
subscribe a few thousands at least for the commencement of 
a similar hopeful experiment. Surely the system in wliich 
are so deeply involved the fortunes of humanity is worth 
thus much! If not, it must be accounted one of tliose 
machines Avhich are admirable in model, but which will not 
loork. 

And here I would humbly suggest, that a method might 
perhaps be devised of bringing into the enterprise a number 
of those who do not quite agree, or are even very far from 
agreeing, with you. You know Christians are often j^raised 
for uniting in a common cause by merging their minor dii- 
ferences (would to God they did it more frequently !) ; now 
how easily could many of your friends do the like ; some of 
whom deem all the differences of all the religions of the 
world Qiiinor differences, and hold that the " absolute relig- 
ion " is latent in them all ! What differences might they 
not consider minor who think Hindooism and Mahometanism 
tolerable ! And Avhat a delightful exhibition of charity 

would it be to find Mr. D declaring that, as Christians 

all agreed in subscribing to the Bible Society, though they 
were not quite unanimous in the interpretation of the Bible, 
so he was willing to support the great " Parent Deism- Pro- 
pagation Society," and cheerfully waive his opinions on the 
trivial points of a future life, and the immortality of the 
soul, in which he did not coincide with his " brethren " ! 
Mr, T , humblv hoiiino- that he should never allow his 



436 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

heart to be divided from his co-religionists by such a dubious 
thing as the doctrine of man's resj^onsibility, of which he 

had strong doubts ! Mr. W , nobly giving to the winds 

his peculiar sentiments on the subject of a special Provi- 
dence ; and Mr. P , in a similar strain, saying that, though 

he thinks all men will be saved at last, yet, conscious of the 
noble projects of his benevolent friends for the amelioration 
of the human race, he will cheerfully contribute his annual 
guinea as a homage to the spirit of Deistical philanthropy ! 
" Behold, how good and pleasant it is for brethren to dwell 
together in unity ! " 

Nay, — I am by no means sure, if you cordially set to 
work on such a magnanimous project, — carefully and hon- 
estly excluding the Bible, — that you might not easily get 
a portion of your funds from Christians themselves. They 
are so j^rovokingly convinced of their power and of your 
impotence, that I verily beheve they would absolutely 
rejoice in what they would regard as a valuable negative 
experiment^ and would be quite willing to give you the 
money, if you will but find the system and the men ! I am 
myself so far a sharer in their confidence, or imj^udence, 
whichever you may please to consider it, that if you will 
but make the experiment, (promising to steer clear of all 
that is characteristic of Cliristianity, and confining your- 
selves to such a system as that of Lord Herbert,) I ^^'ill, if 
you can but get the men, promise you my annual guinea for 
at least ten years to come. 

Now if, while thus partly waging the war at your enemies' 
cost, you cannot find men to undertake a nice, snug, little 
experiment of this kind, — w^hen — when, my dear friend, 
may we expect you to regenerate the world ? 

Let me remind you that there are still many islands in 
the Pacific quite at the service of the "Deism-Propagation 
Society." Or what say you to the African tribes ? Plenty 



TO A DEIST. 437 

of them still living in a complete state of Troglodytish sim- 
plicity ; as St. Clair says, " not many notions to eradicate ;" 
all in a fair condition to receive the new doctrines ! Only 
think of the trimnph of having to say that the group of the 
" Taboo " islands, recently inhabited by a set of idolatrous 
cannibals, or that the tribe of " Quashee Caffres," in a sim- 
ilar condition, had been converted to a pure Deism, their 
language analyzed and reduced to alphabetical notation, a 
grammar and dictionary constructed, and the great Herbei't's 
writings translated, by the indefatigable and self-denying 
labors of the agents of the '' Herbert Society ! " Who 
knows what further efforts this might lead to, if you did 
not become weary in Avell-doing ? At all events, you are 
quite welcome to my subscription. 

Finally, if the Deism you have embraced is ever to be 
worth anything, it must cease to talk so much ; it must 
cease to be contented with merely writing books ; it must 
act. You will tell me perhaps that Christians, too, talk 
more than they act ; God knows the taunt is well deserved. 
Still Christianity, — the inferior system, — does something 
at all events ; surely the higher and the better ought to do 
more. If you tell me, that you cannot agree sufficiently — 
or that those who do agree are too few, and will ever be 
too few to undertake the work — or that you are unwilling 
to do anything, — or that men will not listen to you — will 
not be converted, — it is tantamount to a confession either 
that your system is not, practically, the system for this 
world — or that it is not the truth, — or that it is not truth 
worth a sacrifice ; or all these together. In any case, it 
condemns you to the continued insignificance in which you 
have as yet lingered on in the world. Confute these sur- 
mises, my dear friend ; and that you may do so, once more 
I say — " Devise liberal things." 

Such are a fcAV of the hints which I would venture to 

37* 



438 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

give you — not for the resuscitation of Deism, (for it has 
never been fairly awake yet,) but just to give it a chance 
of becoming so. To these hints I really think you would 
do well to take heed, as to a " light shining in a dark " — 
a very dark — *' place." 

You see I have kept my word as to not " boring " you 
with the old tale of the " Evidences of Christianity." So 
far from that, I have shown you how to demolish Chris- 
tianity altogether. All, I am persuaded, that you have to 
do, is to publish a book which shall ])lainly transcend the 
Bible ; organize a system of worship which shall command 
the sympathies and secure the co-operation of men, and 
successfully com2:)ete with Christianity in its attacks on 
Paganism 



Yours truh^, 

II. E. II. G. 



LETTER XCIX. 

TO C. MASON, ESQ. 

1853. 

My deah Friend, 

You have heard, as every one else, of Dr. Ilassall's dis- 
coveries with his great microscope. Who will not wish 
that he may go on and prosper, in thus unearthing human 
iniquity from its subtle retreats in infinitesnnal atoms, where 
it thought to lie perdu as securely as in its own invisible 
thought? lie has certainly shown that the solar micro- 
scope takes no heed to the maxim, " J96 non appareiitihus 
et non existentibiis eadem. est ratio." "There is nothing 
liidden," by adroit' fnanipulation and cunning intermixture, 
that " shall not be made known," and the lying labels and 
quackish advertisements shall " be jjut to silence " by this 
incorruptible witness. 



DR. HASSALLS MICROSCOPE. 439 

I am told that several " Houses " have threatened this 
" i^eeping Tom " with a i^rosecution for disintegrating their 
abominations, and revealing in precise proportions the per- 
centage of villainy in their adulteration. The only answer, 
it is said, which he condescends to make is, an invitation 
to come and have a look, gratis^ at their own handiwork 
through his microscoj^e ! It is also said that none of them 
Avill accept his challenge ! Wisely, no doubt, for they have 
the advantage even of Dr. Ilassall ; they know beforehand ; 
they have anticii^ated all that he can tell them ! Mrs. Ma- 
cleuchar (in dialogue with the wrathful " Antiquary,") put 
on her spectacles to discover what she well knew was not 
to be found, and exclaimed in well-feigned astonishment, — 
" Saw onie body the like o' that ? " These ingenious artists 
need no solar microscope to tell them what is to be found, 
though we may well indulge in the old lady's exclamation 
when ice have found it, " Saw onie body the like o' that ? " 

This microscope shows the intimate structure and organ- 
ization of the most carefully manijxdated composites. 
Though the component j^articles may have been subdivided 
into the most attenuated forms, or equally strewed through 
the most deceptive medium, the structure of the foreign 
intruder, whether laminated, fibrous, or Avhat not, stands 
unmasked among the heterogeneous particles with which 
it claims relationship, and confesses its roguery under the 
glare of this stupendous eye. The minutest j^article of 
sand, by the side of the minutest particle of sugar, is as 
plainly distinguished as if each were as big as a mountain ; 
tlie atom proclaims itself silex, and is seen to be as unlike 
the speck of saccharine crystal it would fiiin be thought, as 
a square is unlike a circle. Success to the microscope, say 
I, and to the exorcist who wields it ; I know not when I 
have heard of a scientific a^jplication which has so much 
amused me. 



440 THE GREYSON LEFITRS. 

It lias come in good time too ; for to such an extent had 
fraud 2:one that there seemed some chance of our soon 

CD 

finding the last trace of pei)per, coffee, and sugar disappear- 
ing from the simulated compounds called by these lying 
names ; at least, these articles would soon have been ad- 
ministered only in homceopathic doses. 

At one of Dr. HassalFs discoveries, by the way, (of 
which I am reminded by those last words,) you must have 
been much amused. lie declares that he does not find the 
genuine "Homoeopathic Cocoa" differing at all from the 
other adulterated specimens of the same article, except by 
its having less cocoa in it ! But surely the defence is easy ; 
its venders would say that tliey were acting in accordance 
with the maxims of Hahnemann, and giving their j^atient 
customers homoccpathic doses I 

Even drugs, it seems, are not safe from these odious 
adulterators, and the jihysician hardly knows whether he 
may not be giving poison, otherwise than seciuidum artem. 
Must Ave not allow then that here, at least, the homceo- 
pathist has the best of it ? for avIio would think to adul- 
terate the millionth of a grain of Belladonna? Yet I 
know not : let not the homoeopathist be too sure ; for hu- 
man cupidity, 1 fear, would adulterate even the decillionth 
of a grain, if the decillionth of a farthing per cent, is to be 
got by it. " Well," it may be said, " any how in such a 
case it cannot much matter;" but that is mere allopathic 
ignorance. The homoeopathist would doubtless be in agony 
to think that the trecillionth of his grain of aconite might 
possibly be defrauded of a decilhonth of that fraction. At 
all events, none will deny that the patient had a right to 
his fair and full " trecillionth," — if he could but be ever 
sure that he had cfot it ! 

There is one improvement still required on Dr. Hassall's 
instrument. One would hke to see a " moral solar micro- 



DR. IIASS ALL'S MICROSCOPE. 441 

scope," tliat would lay bare, in similar manner, all the " for- 
eign ingredients " — the adalterate mixtures — which enter 
into the composition of spurious virtue. How amusing tlie 
Report of " Analyses " into these would read ! How should 
Ave find, on examination, a hundred pound donation to 

Hospital, by Alderman , prompted by only two 

per cent, of charity combined with ninety-eight per cento 
of vanity and ostentation ; a fine specimen, apparently, of 
devotion, turning out, on being closely insi^ecterl, little else 
than chips of rites and ceremonies, and the sawdust of for- 
mality, wich scarcely one per cent, of genuine devotion in 
it: a parcel of zeal — of the true vermilion dye to all ap- 
pearance — plainly consisting, when subjected to a high 
power, of the vulgar blood-red counterfeit of hatred and 
intolerance : a huge mass of unctuous religious talk utterly 
destitute of a single j^article of sincerity, the article being 
entirely composed of rancid " cant,'' scented with essence 
of hypocrisy : an eloquent discourse of the Rev. Mr. Blar- 
ney, discerned to have but five per cent, of genuine emo- 
tion in it, — the tears and pathos, warranted real, being 
nothing but old " theatrical properties : " the decorous sor- 
rows of an undertaker seen at a glance, and witli scarcely 
a higher power than that of common spectacles, to be noth- 
ing but downright hilarity painted black ; the deep dejec- 
tion of an heir to a large estate, discerned to be similarly 
constituted : the tears of a whole party in a mournhig coach 
found to exhibit the merest tincture of genuine grief for 
the deceased ; what other emotion there was being the re- 
sult of disappointed expectations. 

Such are some of the analyses one might exi>ect to see 
if we liad but this wonder-working instrument — amoral 
solar microscope ; but perhaps it is as well for us all that 

there is none. 

Yours, 

R. E. II. G. 



442 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 



LETTER C. 

to alfked west, esq. 

My dear Feiej^'d, 

You have often heard me mention my friend John Ful- 
ler, — Avho supposed himself to be a lineal descendant of 
old Thomas Fuller, and felt a little innocent pride in so 
thinking ; the only pride I ever saw in him. He is dead 
— and has carried with him out of the world as much true 
worth, 1 believe, as ever existed in any one heart in it. 

He was a genuine Christian if ever there was one. As 
to the species^indeed^ I rather think he would have been him- 
self puzzled to say. " Was he Episcopalian — Presbyterian 
■ — Calvinist — Arminian ? " I hear half a thousand zealots 
say. I hardly know ; but I am sure he was a Christian, 
for he exhibited in great perfection all the principal " para- 
doxes " of sentiment imd conduct which Bacon represents 
as characteristic of one. He exercised an absolute faith 
" in the merits of Christ for his salvation," and yet was as 
much impelled to do " good works " as if he thought he 
could be saved only by his own. " He belicAed Christ 
could have no need of anything he could do, and yet made 
account that he relieved Christ in ail his acts of charity ; " 
" he knew he could do nothing of himself, and yet labored 
to work out his own salvation." "He prayed and labored 
for that which he was confident God meant to give^ He 
was full of gentleness, patience, charity ; and felt an es|)e- 
cial pleasure in doing a kindness to those who had wronged 
him, and in giving a benefaction to a Christian who did 
not wear the outward costume he altogether approved. 
Now, if all that does not make a Christian, I know not 
what docs. He had his " Sibboleth," or liis " Shibboleth," 
I dare say, — for who is without it to some extent? — but 



TRUE CATHOLICISM. 443 

he never could prevail on himself to regard a peculiarity 
of articulation as a different language ; or to see why, if 
men may speak widely different dialects and yet may all 
be Englishmen, Christians may not talk in very different 
dialects, too, without ceasing to be Christians ^ yea, though 
sometimes the pronunciation be so uncouth, that one may 
almost doubt whether they be not " barbarians." 

He is stark naught, says the Papist, in spite of all this 
fiiith and charity, if he did not believe in the infallibility of 
the Pope and the seven sacraments ! Pardon me, Mr. Ro- 
manist, you know about as much about the matter as the 
Biahmin in Marmontel's tale, who, when the young Eng- 
lish officer has saved his daughter's life at the hazard of his 
own, exclaims — "Is it possible that so excellent a ])erson 
should not believe in Yishnoo and his Seven Transmigra- 
tions ? " 

John Fuller did not deny that minor differences of doc- 
trine, or even diversities of ritual, were things of some 
moment ; he thought that every Christian was bound to 
satisfy his conscience respecting such things, and adhere to 
those opinions which he thought really nearest the truth ; 
but while he acted on his own conscientious convictions and 
preferences, he could not allow the essence of Christianity 
to consist in trifles, and never hesitated, where lie did see 
that essence embodied in character, to embrace it with the 
full sympathies of a Christian. "Many errors," he would 
say, " will quietly drop away with the progress of truth 
itself, and many moVe with the progress of charity. Others 
of little moment (strange as it seems to say so) I hardly 
wish ever should drop ; for if men were brought to a perfect 
unanimity, where would be the scope for the exercise of 
mutual charity ? There is as much — nay, a greater diffi- 
culty iq. vanquishing antipathies of religious sentiment^ even 



444 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

when differences are of little moment, than almost any- 
other." 

I have said that John had his preferences and his opinions 
on minor matters ; but never so as to interfere with his 
love of intercommunion among Christians, of whatever 
type. But ho did not think it competent to him to break 
down altogether the sacred enclosure, or diminish by a 
hair's breadth the Avide interval which still subsists between 
the most imperfect Christian, if really one, and him who is 
no Christian at all; and thus, though he was the most 
catholic, he was also the most rigid of men. Unhappy 
result of his consistency! He was thought lax by his 
brethren and bigoted by the world ! But it never troubled 
John. He could hear with edification a sermon from one 
of those he called " his great preachers," whether preached 
in the Cathedral or in a Conventicle, and threw in his 
modest mite into almost any treasury consecrated to Chris- 
tian enterprise and philanthropy ; sometimes — how am I 
ashamed to say it ! — with a peculiar gusto, if his modest 
tribute was in aid of associations which a little differed from 
those he most preferred ! 

In short, he was much in the condition of a certain Cana- 
dian convert of whom I once heard the following^ droll 
story. He had a dream, he said, one night, that he was 
translated to heaven, which to his imagination seemed very 
much like a " large church or meeting-house ; " (I devoutly 
trust he was mistaken in that.) He said he thought Jesus 
Christ questioned each one before him as to his ecclesias- 
tical position. One said he was an Ei^iscopalian. " Then," 
said Christ, " you can go and sit down in that pew — there 
all the Episcopalians are gathered together." Another 
said he was a Baptist ; he was in like manner told to repair 
to another pew. A third said he was a Presbyterian, and 



BEARDS. 445 

a third pew was assigned to him ; and so of the rest. At 
last it came to the turn of the poor savage to be catechized ; 
and not being sufficiently iqy to the nice divisions of ecclesi- 
astical and doctrinal theology, he was afraid that there would 
be no " pew " found for him. Trembling, he replied when 
asked what he was — "I am a — Christian, and love the 
Lord Jesus Christ with all my heart." " Oh, then," said 
the benignant querist, " you may walk all about heaven, 
and go hither and thither just as it pleases you." I am 
afraid that Canadian was a very sly fellow ! 

Yours truly, 

R. E. H. G. 



LETTER CI. 

TO C. MASON", ESQ. 

Glen Shirkag, Aug. 1854. 
My dear Friend, 

You will be glad to hear that I have safely reached my 
old haunt, and have located myself in the family of my 
worthy farmer, who, as well as his wife, two sons, and three 
daughters, — to say nothing of the dogs, — are extremely 
anxious to show me every civility. The weather is splendid 
— if it does but last. This is one of those brio-ht dazzlino: 
August mornings of which we have, perhaps, three or four 
in the course of our English summer; — just enough to 
enable us to comprehend the sarcasm of the Persian ambas- 
sador, who, when asked whether it was really true that the 
Persians worshipped the sun, said, " Yes, and so would the 
English if they ever saw him ! " 

I was in some doubt the first morning whether I should 
be able to get my morning cold bath, — to me an essential 
of life. But I am accommodating — being indifferent 

38 



446 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

whether I baptize by " sprinkling,'* " affusion " or " immer- 
sion," though I prefer the last. On the present occasion, 
I was accommodated with a washing-tub, and a huge water- 
pot (without the " rose "), full of water. My host was 
about to pour its contents into the tub. But seeing the 
thing so handy, and as it was a growing morning, I asked 
for the " rose ; " and becoming at once plant and gardener, 
stood in the tub, and lifting the water-j^ot over my head, 
shoicer-hathed it to my great satisfaction, and I hope with 
some benefit to my stature. I infer it may be so from the 
difficulty I afterwards felt in shaving, which could surely 
only have been from my beard having grown rapidly. I 
state the fact with the impartiality of a philosopher, without 
deciding whether it was due to the watering-pot or a bad 
razor ; pray choose your hypothesis. 

By the way, talking of shaving, what a prodigious num- 
ber of fantastical beardlets I have seeninmy recent journey! 
The other day, on stepping into a railway carriage, I found 
the opposite seats occupied by three hirsute gentlemen, 
who, if they had not been so young, would have looked quite 
venerable, and filled me with the like awe which seized 
the Gauls when they spied the long-bearded senators in the 
Roman Capitol. I really begin to fear that the abominable 
appendage is about to be restored among us. I met a 
youngster the other day whose beard was just in the worst 
possible " stage of development ; " that is, he had got a 
minikin tuft on his chin and a thin crop on his upper lip 
which simply had the effect of making him look execrably 
dirty. He held with me a learned argument for the reten- 
tion of the excrementitious capillaries. Though not old 
enough to have a beard, he was old enough to be an 
Atheist, which he owned with that sweet complacency with 
which so many sucking philosophers of our day, after read- 
ing Comte or the " Vestiges," do the like. He professed 



BEARDS. 447 

to have a reverence for his beard as a gift of Nature, and 
to think it a sort of profanity to throw it aside. By the 
way, I dare say, if the beard controversy goes on much 
longer, we shall have an orthodox and heterodox beard- 
party, as much attached, and with as much reason, to their 
respective doctrines, as the Big-endians and Little-endians 
of Lilliput. — But to return to my youngster. He inno- 
cently asked, %oliy we should shave away what ''''Nature had 
given us." " Why," said I, " suppose Nature has made a 
mistake in giving us such a thing ? Is it not wise to rectify 
it ? " " Made a mistake ! " said he. " Yes," said I ; 
" nothing more easy according to your hypothesis, for you 
confess to Atheism ; why may not the beard be an error of 
Nature? If unintelligent ' laws of development,' or uncon- 
scious necessity or blind chance has made the world and 
beards, I see no reason why you should suppose everytliing 
for the best : and as you have intelligence, at least think 
so," I continued, smiling, " and the universe has none^ you 
and all of us ought to be allowed to reform, alter, and 
amend at pleasure." It was not easy to see how to defend 
the orthodoxy of wearing beards as a gift of Nature on such 
a theory. 

On another occasion, a youth contended that as God had 
given us beards, He must have intended they should be 
worn ; and that it was a sort of impiety to get rid of them. 
But this proved too much; for I asked whether he let his 
nails and beard grow like Nebuchadnezzar, or as far as 
nature chose to let them ? " No," he said, " clij) the beard 
you may, — but that is different from shaving ! " "A subtle 
distinction," said I; "it is a question of limits, I fear, 
which none can determine. Are we at liberty to clip within 
two inches ? — one inch ? — the tenth of an inch ? — the 
millionth of an inch ? For if so, is not shaving close clip- 
ping, as clipping indeed is nothing but a sort of slovenly 



448 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

shaving ? Or is there some orthodox limit to which the 
beard may grow, sacred at once from both scissors or 
razor ? " 

What can be i\iQ final cause of the beard ? Some physi- 
ologists say that it is to help carry off any spare particles 
of the system — any " superfluities of naughtiness " — and 
so serves, with other excretions, to keep up the equilibrium 
between nutrition and consumption. But, according to 
this, a glutton's beard ought to grow faster than that of 
other folks. Be pleased to ask the aldermen of London 
whether they shave twice a day : also whether this is the 
reason why artisans need not shave more than once a week ? 
But, above all, inquire diligently of those who wear a beard, 
what special gratification they have in so doing, that we 
may have a proper induction as to the filial cause of this 
singular appendage, which has ever been to me as great a 
mystery as a monkey's tail. 

Yours ever faithfully, 

K. E. H. G. 

P. S. I fell in the other day with one of these patient 
e/bWike anglers, (up to his knees, by the way, in the 
stream,) who had been at his sport for some hours and 
caught nothing. I told him I thought it must be miserably 
dull work. He contended, (I suppose he was bound to 
make the best of present circumstances,) that the fewer the 
fish the greater the sport, as more skill was required, and 
so on. I almost angered him by asking whether, as it was 
thus a problem of limits, it would not be the greatest sport 
of all to angle for a single gudgeon turned loose in the 
Atlantic ? 



THE LIGHTER THE HEAVIER. 4,4.9 



LETTER CII. 

to a gentleman who would be a christian yet re- 
jected all the peculiar facts and doctrines of 
" historical " christianity. 

My dear Sir, 

You talk of the cumbrous character of the " Christian 
evidences," — and especially of the "pithless" i:>hilological, 
critical, and chronological discussions of " historic " difficul- 
ties. 

To this, I think, I might retort by saying that I find few 
people so prone as some who have adopted a latitudinarian 
theology, — except those indeed, who have rejected Chris- 
tianity even in name, — to dwell on these same difficulties ; 
not for the purpose of attaining satisfaction about them, but 
to puzzle and perplex those who are convinced of the sub- 
stantive truth of Christianity, and are content to leave all 
such minor problems unsolved till they can obtain further 
evidence. I am seldom long in company with certain men 
without finding them busy with the " discrepancies " in our 
Saviour's " genealogy," or the geological difficulties in the 
first chapter of Genesis ; or anxious to know whether it was 
going out of Jericho or into it that our Lord healed the 
blind man, or whether two w^ere healed or only one. Li 
short, I find no persons so ready to reduce the evidences of 
Chritianity to " pithless " discussions, as those who receive 
a minimum of Christianity ; nor any who so often ask satis- 
faction of their difficulties as those w-ho hope it may never 
be found ! 

But with you, I shall not think it worth while thus to 
retort. I shall carry the war into your own quarters. I 
shall, without hesitation, affirm that it is theologians of your 

38* 



450 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

stamp who, of all men, are most open to the charge of 
binding " critical" mill-stones about peoj^le's necks, and that 
it is equally api^licable to your theology as a product^ and 
to the desperate processes by which your alchemists of 
criticism distil it from the Scriptures. You tell me that 
you receive, in some sense, Christianity as a divinely orig- 
inated system ; and yet you reject all that is miraculous and 
supernatural in its professed /ac^5, as also all that has seemed 
to the generality of the readers of the New Testament for 
eighteen centuries, to be undeniably characteristic of its 
doctrines. All this you regard either as the product of the 
l^rejudice and "stand-point" (a convenient thing is that 
" stand-point ") of those who historically transmitted Chris- 
tianity to us ; or else, as seemingly on the page of Scripture, 
indeed, but, in truth, not there. By the resources of a 
clever exegesis, and a free use of the critical sponge, it may 
be expelled altogether. In short, it is all the error of inter- 
pretation ! 

Whichever of these two theories be adopted, I assure you, 
I find your argument against a " critical theology " irresis- 
tible, and the New Testament transformed into the most 
burdensome book in the world. And if I coidd be got to 
the "point of view" necessary to adopt either, I should 
infallibly go further, out of sheer inability to deal with so 
intractable a phenomenon as your Christianity ! If I adopt 
\h\Q^ first theory, and suppose that the "facts and doctrines" 
which seem so plainly written in the New Testament, and 
which are generally admitted to be there, are yet all mis- 
take, gross ignorance, prejudice, delusion, on the part of 
the writers, — I know no one reason in the world why I 
should regard, with any remaining veneration, men who, at 
every turn, were so full of egregious blunders on the most 
vital points. If, for example, they meant to maintain the 
literal reality of their miraculous narratives, and supernat- 



THE LIGHTER THE HEAVIER. 451 

urally derived doctrines ; if they meant to assert the Pre- 
existence, raucli more the Divinity of Christ, — the dogma 
of atonement by his death, — the divine inspiration and 
authority of their communications, and other kindred doc- 
trines, — and yet these were fanatical dehisions, and are to 
be wholly rejected, I see no sufficient reason why I should 
regard with even common respect such com2:)rehensive blun- 
derers ; or what is the residuum, after all, which such large 
excisions have left for my reception ; or lahy that residuum, 
which itself differs indefinitely with different interpreters 
among you — should be regarded with any more rever- 
ence than the rest. If you say, " because it can be other- 
wise proved true," — by all means hold it for true then ; 
but it surely cannot be regarded as any the tnore true for 
being inculcated by those who do not give it its authority, 
and who in other things have so egregiously blundered and 
gone astray! You ought to hold it for true, not at all 
because Apostles have written, but in spite of their having 
written ! that is, in spite of the presumptions Avhich their 
countless and absurd errors would naturally create against 
it ; and on account of other evidence so strong, that even 
their extravagances cannot prejudice it! On this theory, I 
say, your theology is simply a " critical burden," which 
" neither we nor our fathers have been able to bear ;" and I 
will add, nor will our children ; and the only consequence 
of its fair application on my own part, would be that I should 
summarily rid myself of such troublesome incumbrances as 
the Apostles altogether ! 

If, on the other hand, it be said that the doctrines which 
to ninety-nine out of every hundred readers of the New 
Testament seem to be there, are not there, and that a skil- 
ful and bold criticism can expel them fi'om the page, then I 
can only say that I find your " critical burdens " at least 
equally intolerable. I have sometimes tried to interpret the 



452 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

^ew Testament in your fashion ; — but I find in every chap- 
ter, in ahnost every verse, the natural sense so rebelhng 
asrainst the critical rack and thumbscrew, such a constant 
outcry from the tortured language against the violence done 
to it, that, on my honor, compassion itself cannot stand it. 
Not only is a non-natural sense, not only is forced construc- 
tion perpetually necessary, but I am obliged to use the 
sponge itself so often and so ruthlessly, — nay, to shovel 
away so many entire chapters bodily, — that I feel that if 
the writers meant only what your system involves, by all 
that language I have twisted, and tortured, and j)ared, and 
cut away, and thrown aside, they were so astoundingly ig- 
norant of the ordinary use of human language, that A\'hat- 
ever else they might be, " Hevealers " they were not ; that 
so far from having the gift of tongues, they could not speak 
Avith one ; and that they must certainly have believed one 
dogma of the Romish Church, — that the mysteries of 
religion are most worthily expressed in a language which 
the worshippers cannot understand! If your system be 
indeed Cnristianity, the very construction of the books 
which contain it is an ignominious failure. 

To arrive at such a Christianity, by thus dealing with the 
only documents which do or can tell us a syllable about it, 
implies, as I say, an immeasurably heavier burden of criti- 
cism than any of those dry controversies on the " Evidences " 
with which you twit me. 

To me it seems clear as the day, that if such a system as 
yours he that of the New Testament, — its writers never 
can, in any sense, have come from God, to tell it to us. If 
God, in the Scripture, has made known religious truth by 
human agency, the least we can suppose is that He employ- 
ed men who could use human language so as to convey, to 
the majority at least of candid readers, what they really 
meant* and if what you call the current, but mistaken, 



THE LIGHTER THE HEAVIER. 453 

Christianity, he that meaning, there can be no doubt He 
has done so ; for the style of Scripture, as it is in general 
wonderfully clear and simple, so it has conveyed this mean- 
ing to the immense majority of readers in every age. The 
miraculous and supernatural " facts," and the " doctrines " 
of the " current theology " have been generally supposed, 
by learning and ignorance alike, to be naturally conveyed 
by the language of the N"ew Testament. Plentifully, I 
admit, have interpreters differed, as regards modes of Church 
government, and as regards many minor doctrines ; as re- 
gards also the philosophy of doctrines, which are not minor ; 
but I repeat, in the immense majority of cases, the facts and 
doctrines you especially dislike have been supposed to be 
what the Apostles designed to convey to us. If they did 
not, the Scripture has failed of its object ; they who wrote 
it have hopelessly misled, not enlightened, the world; and I 
should hold this as a conclusive indication that they did not 
come from God. 

To receive therefore any such system as that you de- 
fend, necessitates a much more "intolerable" criticism 
than any I find employed by " current Christianity." 
When I have applied it, and comj^are the results with 
the documents from which I have so laboriously extracted 
it, I cannot bring myself to believe that those who penned 
the documents can have been half as capable of expressing 
their meaning as nine-tenths of mankind in general ; while 
it is little less than blasphemy to imagine that men who 
have so stupidly misled the world can have been emjjloyed 
to communicate a system of divine "Revelation," — which, 
after all, Avas to reveal to the world the contrary of its 
true import ! 

No; — the "burden" of such an hypotliesis is indeed 
" intolerable." I could be more easily reconciled to Deism, 
however unsatisfactory and disputable its meagre doc- 



454 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

trines, than while holding little more, bind about my neck 
such a yoke as that of a " Revelation " which can only be 
understood by suj^posing its authors did not understand 
the modes of common speech, by their misuse of which 
they have actually cajoled the great bulk of their honest 
and faithful readers, in every age and country, to infer the 
contrary of what they meant in all then- most momentous 
utterances ! 

You frankly confessed, in our recent interview, that 
those who adopt your critical principles have ever been 
few ; and that, few as you are, you occupied every con- 
ceivable point between bare Deism and the " current 
orthodoxy," — a result which must naturally be expected 
from the impossibility of fixing the limit within which 
different minds will apply your " cumbrous " apparatus of 
criticism. 

Forgive me, for saying that, for similar reasons, " few " 
you will always be. The generality of people will never 
endure your intolerable processes of criticism, whether 
you call its products rationalistic^ — on the supposition 
that the Apostles sincerely delivered a system, nine-tenths 
of which is to be rejected as fanatical nonsense; or 
exegetical^ — on the supposition that they did not say 
what nearly everybody is irresistibly led to believe they 
meant to say ! The generality of readers Avill recoil from 
the horrible ordeal of logical and critical torture to which 
you would subject them; they will go on further than 
you, or take the "current Christianity." — This last, not 
stereotyped^ indeed, will still embrace, under some or other 
modifications, the "supernatural narratives" of the New 
Testament, and these doctrines at least, — the Pre-exist- 
ence of Christ, the union of two natures in Him, and the 
atonement for sin by His death. These things are so 
entwined with the very texture of the New Testament, 



ON THE "DISCREPANCIES." 455 

that, like the supernatural in its history, they cannot be 
rubbed out without making huge holes in it. I do not say, 
for I do not think, that men Avill all agree in the reception 
of any one theory of the pliilosopliy of these doctrines ; 
for, as to this, Scripture itself is silent. But the doctrines 
themselves, I feel convinced, cannot be evaded by any one 
who honestly asks "What is Christianity?" and when 
they cease to be received, it will only be by a cost of 
criticism which will render readers of the New Testament 
bankrujDts in faith altogether. 

Yours truly, 

E. E. H. G. 



LETTER CIII. 

TO A TOIJNG FEIEND DISPOSED TO MAKE THE "DISCREP- 
ANCIES " IN SCKIPTUKE A REASON FOR RENOUNCING 
CHRISTIANITY. 

1853. 

My dear young Friend, 

You tell me you cannot reconcile all the discrepancies 
which maybe detected in minute portions of the Scripture 
history, and that you therefore feel compelled to give up 
the truth of Christianity ! 

What a " therefore " is that ! I pity your logic. Pardon 
me, but between the premises and the conclusion there is 
no connection in the world. It is much as if you said, 
you cannot demonstrate the compatibility of all the phe- 
nomena of the universe with the divine benevolence, — 
and therefore., you must become an Atheist; nay, it is 
really as absurd as if you were to say that you cannot 
reconcile all the discrepancies of English historians, and 
therefore give up the History of England: for discrep- 



456 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

ancies in a history may be numerous and real, and yet 
every important fact of it be true. 

"You cannot reconcile," you say, "all the discrep- 
ancies;" and I may retort, "Who asked you?" Cer- 
tainly, I should not; for I cannot reconcile all those 
discrepancies either. But as to giving up Christianity as 
divine — or the New Testament, as the "Word of God on 
that account, — I should as soon think, as some one said, 
in a somewhat similar case, " of burning down London to 
get rid of the bugs." 

"What are you to do?" you ask; "what can you do?" 
Why, so far from your being compelled to do Avhat you 
meditate, — there are, as the late Sir Robert Peel used to 
say, no less than " three courses " open to you, any one of 
which would be infinitely more logical than the renun- 
ciation of Christianity. 

I. Even if you were to affirm, — what perhaps you Avill 
affirm, — not only that you cannot reconcile all these 
discrepancies, but that they are, and mil for ever be, 
irreconcilable ; that they are mistakes of the writers, just 
because "inspiration" did not plenarily protect them 
against infirmities of intellect, any more than it did against 
all errors of conduct ; still you would not be justified in 
such a conclusion, as you seem to think inevitable. And 
I say that this is proved even by the conduct of the hulh 
of those who chiefly insist on this view of the discre])- 
ancies, — who make the most of them, who often per- 
versely pet them ; for even these do not therefore affirm 
that the entire evidence on behalf of Christianity as a 
thing of Divine origin, is naught ; they still affirm that the 
substantial truth of its facts is incontrovertible ; and that 
the office of " criticism " is, at best, only to eliminate the 
minute portions in which "irreconcilable discrepancy " is 
to be traced. I know, indeed, that some of these " elim-. 



ON THE "DISCREPANCIES." 457 

inators " proceed in this task at a rare rate, and " elim- 
inate " nearly the whole book ; " turn the house," as the 
saying is, " out of the windows ; " but many, notwith- 
standing, do apply the theory within perfectly insignificant 
and innocuous limits. Now I say not that this is the best 
method of dealing with such matters ; — I think either the 
second or the third (which I shall presently touch) is 
better. Still if, as is very 2:>ossible, those who hold this 
theory apply the jDrinciple honestly, and only to the 
minute and trivial portions of the New Testament History 
in which alone anything approaching " irreconcilable con- 
tradiction " can, with a shadow of reason, be pretended, — 
the result is much the same as if the whole book were 
accepted as divine. So little is rejected, that it does not 
appreciably affect the sum of w^hat is retained. To ask 
the difference is of as little significance as to ask Avhether 
somebody is richer than you, who has a thousand pounds, 
when you have the same sum all but a thousandth part of 
a farthing ! 

I know, indeed, there are those who parade and exag- 
gerate these diflS^culties for the very purpose of finding 
excuses for the conclusion you seem in danger of arriving 
tat. They have accordingly always magnified and mul- 
tiplied them ; but the bulk of those who insist on them in 
our day do not insist on them as at all affecting the claim 
of Christianity to be divinely originated, and they there- 
fore ^rowe that it is at least possible to hold this theory 
and yet not give up Christianity. Nor can you in justice 
do so, unless you have first confuted the immensely varied 
and convergent proofs of its truth, and the substantial 
credibihty of its documents; — any more than, in the 
parallel case, you can set aside the history of England or 
Greece because you have found variations and contra- 
dictions in the recital of j)articular facts ! 

39 



458 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

But you will, perhaps, say, "Does not this impose upon 
me the task of eliminating what is false ? And does it not 
comj^el me to reject the idea of plenary inspiration?" 

R-ecollect what I have said; — I do 7iot affirm that this 
first way is the hest possible way of confronting the difficul- 
ties which you say perplex you ; I am only contending that 
it is consistent and intelligible, though Z prefer another; — 
of which presently. But as to the above questions, I must 
answer, on this first theory, in the affirmative. You must, 
no doubt, diligently and carefully eliminate the fragments 
of error which you deem such ; you must winnow the 
wheat. " Am I capable of such an exercise of intellect ? " 
you will say. I have nothing to do Avith that ; but this I 
will say, 1. That it makes not the substantive truth of the 
New Testament less true, nor justifies you in rejecting the 
whole, because you think a ten thousandth j^art doubtful ; 
and 2. That if you reject only what you call " demonstrably 
contradictory^'' I am convinced your task will be light 
enough, and that the balance which will weigh the difier- 
ence between your New Testament and mine will be a 
very delicate one ! Further, your task, even on this theory, 
will in fact involve no other difficulty than you submit to 
in dealing with any book of authentic history, — minute 
portions of which you reject as erroneous ; no other diffi- 
culty than a judge or juryman is compelled to confront, 
who, in taking the sum of evidence, rejects in a similar 
manner what is contradictory or irreconcilable ^vith the 
main fiacts substantiated, while he yet cleaves to his con- 
clusion notwithstanding. Now I say this is more consistent 
and intelligible than the course you propose, which really is 
much as if a judge were to say, "Gentlemen, there are 
some minute facts which seem irreconcilable, and therefore 
I have nothing to say to you ;" or as if the jury were to say, 
" Till these facts are fully reconciled we can give no verdict." 



ON THE "DISCREPANCIES." 459 

N'or can it be proved tliat, on such a theory of inspira- 
tion as that noAV implied, God would have done anything, 
(however improbable a priori^ out of analogy with His 
i:)rocedure in other cases ; as God has j^laced us in an anal- 
ogous difficulty in other cases, so, for aught you know. He 
may in this. To discriminate — to judge with candor — to 
hold fist what is j^roven in spite of difficulties — may be 
required of us as part of that exercise of a docile faith, of 
an unprejudiced reason, which throughout our whole pro- 
bation He has provided for us here. Indeed, on any theory 
of inspiration, He has practically involved us in much the 
same difficulty : for even on the theory of the plenary 
insj^iration of Scripture, He has Himself left on the sacred 
page the traces of appciTent discrepancies that perj^lex and 
baffle us. Now on the theory that He occasionally allowed 
human infirmity to introduce error and mistake. He would 
only have subjected us to much the same discipline. 

As to your second inference, — that you must, at all 
events, give uj) the plenary inspiration — the absolute infol- 
lible truth of every syllable of Scripture, — I acknowledge 
that what you prove to be error cannot be inspired ; only 
be sure that it is so j^i'oved. That will necessitate your 
giving u]) those minute portions to which you can say de- 
monstrated error or paljjable contradiction attaches. 

Now can you believe, perha2>s you will say, that God has 
commissioned men to declare religious truth to the world — 
has inspired the«i with the knowledge of it, — has wrought 
mh'acles and uttered j^roj^hecy to authenticate it, and yet 
has left the very messengers to be sometimes misled by 
ignorance ? to misstate fact ? to blunder in the very deUv- 
ery of their message ? 

Now, (mind once again) I do not deny this difficulty, 
and, in consequence, prefer another method of dealing with 
the matter, as I shall presently show you ; but still, I say, 



4 GO THE GREY SON LETTEKS. 

that even such a supposition is perfectly intelligible and 
consistent, compared with the alternative you propose to 
yourself — the summary rejection of Christianity ! 

For, after all, if we admit this theory, does it leave you 
in greater difficulty than Theism leaves you ? Does not 
the constitution of the world jDresent you with analogous 
facts? While millions of j^henomena attest the divine 
goodness, do you not every now and then stumble on some 
which look the other way ? Is the plague or the rattle- 
snake quite intelligible ? Do you not, when you meet 
with such unaccountable phenomena, say, " They are dif- 
ficulties indeed — things quite inexplicable, but they must 
not be allowed to override the deductions which the im- 
mense majority out of every million of facts will justify?" 
Do you not say, " I believe there must be good reasons for 
these ugly things, though I do not know what they are ? " 

You may perhaps rejoin, "Yes, but after all, a cobra or 
rattlesnake is God's direct work, and therefore I believe 
there must be good reasons for it, though I am ignorant of 
them." I answer, "Very well; and may you not say the 
same of what is inexplicable in what God permits ? Would 
it be any more wonderful if God should permit human ig- 
norance and infirmity to introduce some trivial errors into 
His word (mind, I say not it is so) than that His power 
and wisdom should do what you can in no way comprehend 
in His works ? " 

But if you vnll have a precisely analogous case, I can 
give it you in the moral government of God. There God, 
every day and everywhere, permits the remaining follies 
of the wise and the remaining infirmities of the virtuous 
to chequer the results of their beneficent action on the 
world ; to mingle much error with their truth, some evil 
with their good. And can you prove that it 7nay not have 
been to some extent thus, even in the construction of ^ 



ON THE " DESCREPANCIES." 461 

divine revelation ? Would not sucli a course be at least 
in analogy " with the constitution and course of nature ? " 
If He permitted, though we know not why, His fair crea- 
tion to be invaded with evil, and " the enemy by night to 
sow tares among the wheat ; " would it be inconceivable, 
if, in like manner. He should have suffered minute errors 
to enter into the texture of the Bible ? 

KecoUect, however, what I have said; I do not think 
this method so eligible as the second of the three courses, 
or as the third ; — but this I say — it is perfectly intelligi- 
ble and consistent comj^ared with the coarse application of 
your Gordian shears. 

" What then, is your second theory ? " you will say. 
But you must wait till to-morrow. I have Avell filled my 
sheet, and I hate crossing. I conclude by begging you to 
believe me, 



Your loving friend, 



LETTER CIV. 

TO Tilli: SAME. 



E. E. H. G. 



My dear Yofth, 

As to my second theory of dealing with the " discre- 
l^ancies," it is a very simple one, and not less admirable, — 
namely, to let them alone ; — to postiDone them till further 
light is thrown upon them ; not to anticipate the true 
theory of them ; to refrain from j^i'onouncing them either 
absolutely insoluble or otherwise. 

And the general evidence for the Bible is such as to jus- 
tify this abstinence from dogmatism. We can afford to 
wait. A Christian may say with justice — "When I can 
solve these difficulties, I am glad ; when I cannot, I am 
willing to suspend my judgment ; they do not, they never 

39* 



462 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

can (whatever be the solution), shake the substantive credi- 
bility of the great facts and main statements of the scrij^tural 
documents ; adequate evidence against these must be an 
earthquake which shall subvert the very foundations of the 
faith, and leave the whole fabric a wreck, not a flash of criti- 
cal lightning, which grazes, or S23linters, or even dislodges a 
stone or two in some remote turret or ornamental pinnacle. 
I can loait — I can afford to wait — no one hurries me; — 
why should I be so incontinent of my opinion as to pro- 
nounce before I am sure that I have all the i^ossible data ? 
Whether the discrepancies are ultimately to be disposed 
of by supposing something less than indefectible inspira- 
tion for every particle of canonical Scrij^ture, or by finding 
that they yield, as so many others have already done^ to 
mere accurate recensions of the text, or more severe colla- 
tion of the Scripture with itself or with profane writere, or 
unexpected recoveries of fragments of ancient history, I 
leave for awhile ; for, either way, the things which must 
thus be left are but " dust in the balance ;" subtracted or 
added, they will not appreciably affect the result ; and so, 
whether zealous Stephen really confounded the sej^ulchre 
which Jacob bought of the fother of Shechem with that 
which Abraham bought of Ephron the Hittite, or not, I 
shall magnanimously leave to future inquiries, and sleep 
none the worse for it ! 

I am fully aware that the infidel deems it infinitely im- 
portant that such weighty points should be instantly set- 
tled ; and indeed, from the eagerness with which he intro- 
duces, and the j^ertinacity with which he discusses them, 
one can hardly helj) fancying that he^ and not Christianity, 
is the party principally interested in the issue ; and in very 
truth, it is so ; for it is of immense importance to him that 
Christianity should seem fiilse ; of little importance to 
Christianity that such discrepancies should be reconciled. 



ON THE " DESCREPANCIES." 4G3 

But there is still a third course, in my judgment still 
better than the second^ and the one to which I myself most 
incline ; it is that of combining, with that abstinence fi'om 
all dogmatic decision which the second course requires, a 
reverential remembrance of the many instances in which 
discrepancies, once vehemently insisted on, have yielded 
to further investigation. Hence, a suspicion, at all events 
founded on induction, that if we will but wait with a little 
patience, that patience will be rewarded with a satisfactory 
solution. Just so we act when we meet with phenomena 
which seem to shock our notions of the divine benevolence, 
in the department of physical inquiry ; we do not foolishly 
imagine that every difficulty we meet with that we cannot 
solve is absolutely insoluble, but we wait with confidence 
for further lis^ht. 

" But is not this an act of unreasoning faith ? " you will 
perhaps say. — No, an act of reason y for it is founded on 
experience of the past. I see that many difficulties Avhich 
half a century ago were as clamorously proclaimed to be 
" palpable contradictions " to all history and all probability 
as those which still j^erplex us, have been removed. What 
right then, have I to assume that the same will net happen, 
if I have but patience, with the remainder ? What right 
have I to suppose that the dogmatism which has been proved 
so hasty in past times, and in other cases^ is never to be 
proved so any more? Ought I not, on a fair induction^ 
(not merely on au a priori conclusion that indefectible truth 
must belong to all Scripture,) to wait not only with patience, 
but with hope ? And I can wait, not merely because so 
many difficulties have yielded, but because I see so plainly 
that man has more than a trifle yet to learn; that antiquities, 
history, ethnology, philosophy, "chronology, geology, and 
half a dozen other sciences, are by no means exhausted ; 
and that then- progress will, together with the study of the 



464 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

sacred books themselves, tend more and more to throw light 
on these subjects. 

All this of course is just simply saying that I am not en- 
titled to assume a discrepancy to be absolutely msoluhle, so 
long as I see that others which were thought so, proclaimed 
so, and rejoiced in as such by infidels half a century ago, 
are now allowed to be so no longer. 

We may w^ell believe the truth of what Butler says of 
the word of God, in his celebrated work : " It is not at all 
incredible that a book which has been so long in the pos- 
session of mankind should contain many truths as yet undis- 
covered, for all the same phenomena and the same faculties 
of investigation from which such great discoveries in natural 
knowledge have been made in the present and past age, 
were equally in the possession of mankind several thousand 
years before ;" and for a similar reason we may equally well 
believe that increasing light will be thrown on the difficulties 
which meet us, and meet us no less in the investigation of 
the Works than in the study of the Word of God. 

Both the works and the Word of God are indeed inex- 
haustible both in beauties and in mysteries ; fraught with 
every element designed to educate the whole man — and 
amongst the rest, with a few " hard sayings " for a diligent 
reason to investigate, and a few, harder still, for a docile 
faith to receive without fully comj)rehending at all. 

However, my dear youth, ponder, I beg you, my words, 
and see whether cmy one of the three alternatives I have 
laid before you is not more rational (as I believe it is) than 
the rash alternative you talk so lightly about. 

You will observe that these remarks apply only to — what 
I understand you to be troubled with — the apparent " dis- 
crepancies" which you find in Scripture. If you mean 
much more than this; — if, when you pretend to see no 
discrepancy, you choose to refuse credence to a fact because 



ON THE " DESCREPANCIES." 465 

it is " mysterious," or transcends your comprehension, why, 
there is, of course, no end to that sort of objection ; and 
you might as well doubt whether there is such a thing as 
the union of body and soul; — for that is as much above 
your comprehension as anything in Scripture ; in short, your 
creed will be speedily reduced to — zero. 

If you urge that the first theory of the " discrepancies " 
requires to be cautiously applied, — that it will be apt to 
yield different results in different hands, — that it seems a 
somewhat slippery place for a foothold, I grant it ; but you 
will observe that I do not think it is the most philosophical 
or modest of the three. Still I am sure that it (and still 
more the others) is modesty, sense, philosophy itself, com- 
pared with that Curtius-like leap into the gulf of infidelity 
which you propose to take ! 

Sure I am that if a man apply even the^jr^^ theory, with 
honest and rigorous candor, restricting it to the petty 
details in which the paraded " discrepancies " are found, he 
will reject only infinitesimal quantities; while millions have 
acquiesced in the second and third with perfect tranquillity 
to their faith, ^ay — Christians in general tnust have done 
so ; since no one pretends to be able to reconcile all these 
discrepancies. 

And thus if you think that they are ever likely to be of 
any weight as against Christianity, let facts confute you. 
Not only, as I have said, do the majority even of those who 
most vehemently contend for the presence of minute error 
in the Scriptures, tell you that they do not therefore dream 
of its being necessary to abandon Christianity itself, and 
that you are consequently wrong in your conclusion; but 
the incessant repetition from age to age of the very same 
class of difficulties does not make the smallest ai^preciable 
impression on the Christian world at large ! If, therefore, 
the hope of Infidehty be founded on such " discrepancies," 



4G6 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

never, surely, was hope more delusive. As I was recently 
obliged to remind a young contemporary of yours, (who 
2:>leads for undisguised Deism,) experience has fully proved 
that nothing can be expected from the perpetual parade of 
these " discrepancies." Somehow each generation of Infi- 
dels imagines it is saying something new and to the purpose 
when it urges them. They have been tried, over and over 
again ; and against the vast fabric of Christian evidence, 
and the general conviction of its truth, they produce no 
more effect than firing pop-guns against granite. In fact, 
we find the mass of the people will not heed them. Take, 
for example, that " discrepancy " on which you lay so much 
stress in your last. Why, it has been reproduced in every 
age. It was insisted on by Celsus ; by Porj^hyry, by Col- 
lins ; by Bolingbroke ; it was again iterated by Voltaire ; 
it duly reappears in Strauss ; in short, in almost every infidel 
writer : but it is of no avail whatever against the impres- 
sion produced by the general evidence. The case is much 
as in every difiicult trial in a court of justice ; there is sure 
to be some point — often several — which no man can make 
anything of, which nobody can clear up ; everybody wants 
satisfaction thereon, and no one can give it ; meantime every- 
body is convinced by the general stream and convergency 
of the evidence; and with the exception of a crotchety 
" Infidel " here and there, the prisoner is acquitted or hanged 
with the all but unanimous verdict of the community. 

Yours very truly, 

E. E. H. G. 



"TRANSMUTATION" AND " DEVELOPHENT." 467 

LETTER CV. 

TO ALFRED WEST, ESQ. 

1853. 

My dear West, 

I have had a talk with your young relative, and you may 
set your mind at rest on one point. He is no Atheist nor 
Pantheist. He is a great admirer, indeed, of the theory of 
the "Vestiges;" but then, much as you and I recoil from 
the theory there propounded, (as everybody else will in a 
dozen years,) that theory does not necessarily involve Ath- 
eism — which its author, in fact, expressly disavows. He 
has been often charged, it is true, with holding views /ayor- 
ahle to Atheism ; and it must be confessed, that the first 
editions of his work were greatly calculated to justify the 
notion ; yet we f annot, and ought not, to doubt, unless he 
be a very hypocrite of hypocrites, that he means what he 
says in the successive eclaircissements which he has given 
to the world of his doctrines , when he tells us, therefore, 
that he believes in an intelligent and conscious Personality 
who has "developed" the universe out of the fire-mist. 
For my own part, after this, I must believe him a Theist ; 
though as to the " fire mist," I rather think it is all " moon- 
shine " of the author's fancy. 

Nor indeed, as has been well remarked by several writers, 
can any such theory really affect the question of Theism 
at all ; if, indeed, such rare " transformations " and " trans- 
mutions," and " developments " of organized beings, as it 
supposes, (were there but any proof of them,) ought not 
rather to enhance the proofs of divine power and intelli- 
gence. Surely such transmutations not less require power 
and intelligence than the received hypothesis of successive 
creations ; for even if the elements of the material universe, 
if matter itself, — be supposed eternal, it can never be 



468 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

proved that the properties and laws in virtue of which it has 
been " developed " into such wondrous results inherently 
belong to it ; or that if some properties did delong to it, a 
chance-medley combination or blindly necessary application 
of them would make such a symmetrical and harmonious 
universe. 

All the usual arguments for Theism, therefore, remain 
unaffected by any such hypothesis ; the indications of order, 
of design, — the inferences from effect to cause, which, 
let hyper-metaphysical brains do w^hat they will to invali- 
date, men in general, a million out of every million and one, 
loill cling to and repose in, — are just what they were ; 
they are no more affected by any such hypothesis as 
that of the " Vestiges," how^ever irrational and fantastical 
it may be on other grounds, than is the argument for the 
intelligent fabrication of our bodies by the fact that w^e all 
had fathers^ or for that of a butterfly by the fact that it 
came out of a chrysalis ! The mere number, subtlety, and 
duration of the phenomena of " transmutation " make no 
difference in this argument, so long as the several ^:><:^r^5 of 
the series, one and all, are marked by the same character- 
istics of " design ; " rather, the inference is (as already said) 
but strengthened and multiplied at each remove. If A, B, 
and C be all stamped by their respective signatures of de- 
sign, it were strange to suppose that that inference is invali- 
dated because C came from B and B from A. Let the 
indigree of these phenomena be long or short, the argu- 
ments from Theism remain just w^here they w^ere. 

Not, of course, that I think the theory on that account 
harmless; a muddle-headed youth, no doubt, may easily 
abuse it to Atheism ; for if he can but relegate the phe- 
nomena in question to a sufliciently remote antiquity — 
reduce the universe to a very fine " fire-mist," and interpose 
a sufiicient number of changes and "transformations" 



" TRANSMUTATION " AND " DEVELOPMENT." 469 

between the present complexity of the universe and the 
first touch, next-to-nothing (!), which set all agoing^ and 
lie is apt to think, not, as he ought, that the wisdom and 
power which evolved all things from such an infinitesimal 
germ and pre-arranged the evolution and march of all these 
stupendous "developments" are the more worthy of ad- 
miration ; but that he has got rid of the necessity of a 
Deity altogether, for that truly a Deity must have had next 
to nothing to do. 

I have no fear, however, that this theory ever will or can 
make Atheists ; for if it be but understood, that is impos- 
sible. 

In pomt of philosophy, it is worthless ; because it is a 
perfectly gratuitous^ fantastical departure, under the mask 
of philosophizing, from all the cardinal doctrines of Baconian 
induction. 

It is a species of very bad poetry ; the imagination is 
allowed absolute license, and we are taught to believe 
things, not because it is proved they are, but because we 
don't know but what 2^ossibly they may have been ! Thus 
we are told, for example, that though instances of the 
" transmutation " of species cannot be produced, — though 
all the fillets throughout the entire range of authentic history 
are against it, — though we never see any indications of 
monkeys turning into men, or fishes into birds, (though I 
will not say that we have not sometimes the initial process 
by which young philosophs promise to "develop" into 
l^uppies,) — yet that such things may have been fifty millions 
of years ago ; that the whole term and sphere of our obser- 
vation are too limited to allow of such spectacles, but that 
we do not know what twenty or a hundred millions of years 
might do ! What sort of jDhilosophy is it which tells us 
that we may infer something, because we do not know that, 
in fifty millions of years or so, something of which we have 

40 



470 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

not the slightest proof that it ever dici occur, might not 
occur ! How would Bacon have felt abashed and insulted, 
if he had been told that these his professed disciples, who 
are ever pleading and profaning his name, would argue that 
we are to consider such and such conclusions probable, not 
because we know what is or has been, but precisely because 
we do not know that it may not have been ! It is to dream, 
not to philosophize, — to talk in this way. It is just as if a 
man challenged us to believe that not only is Jupiter inhab- 
ited, but that it is inhabited by animals with three heads and 
fifteen hands, inasmuch as none can say that it may not 
be ; nay, because we do 7iot know that it is 7iot ! Surely 
any rational creature would reply, " Until you know that it 
is, do not venture on any hypothesis on the subject. Do 
not make your very ignorance — this ' you do 7iot know ' — 
the basis of pretended knowledge." I believe that, in spite 
of the boasted advance of science in our day, there never 
has been a period in w^hich more rash hypotheses have been 
broached; or more at which Bacon would have stood 
aghast, to hear his name pleaded for them ! But your 
young friend is an ardent admirer of the hypothesis of " de- 
velopment ; " and I must tell you in another letter, if I can 
get time to scribble it to-morrow, the heads of our conver- 
sation. 

Yours ever, 

R. E. 11. G 



LETTER CVI. 

TO THE SA31E. 

1852. 
My dear "West, 

I promised to let you know of my conversation with your 

young friend, who, after reading the " Vestiges," has so 

violent ^penchant for a simious ancestry. 



TRANSMUTATION OF "SPECIES" THEORY. 471 

I found it difficult, I promise you, to treat the subject 
■with sufficient gravity. " Why," said he, with a half-deiiaiit 
air, in reply to a little banter, " why should I not believe 
that at a remote period I might have had a monkey for my 
ancestor ? " 

I told him gravely, " That perhaps it might be difficult to 
say why he should not think so." 

" But now, seriously," said he, " why may not a man have 
had such an origin ? " 

" Nay," said I, " I think the question is, not why a man 
may not have had such an origin, but why we are to be- 
lieve he had ? If any man has a particular predilection for 
a monkey-ancestry, — as you seem to have at present, — why, 
as a matter of taste merely, I have no objection in the world. 
I never quarrel about pedigrees — they are always ticklish 
subjects for discussion. If I went to see the good Welsh- 
man Avhose genealogical roll had, half way up it, the mod- 
est notice, 'About this time Adam was born,' and then went 
on, nobody knows how far beyond such a poor modern date, 
I should hardly have contested the point with him, but 
should have let him revel in his j^re-adamite aps^ as I do 
you in your pre-adamite apes^ to the utmost bent of his 
pride of lineage. You merely go a few millions of genera- 
tions further back — to your great 7rd7nro<s, the monhey^ and 
your more venerable 7rpo7ra7r7ro9, the tadpole. Pray please 
yourself, if it is to be a matter of taste ; but if you insist 
upon it, that it is reasonable for you to affirm such an origin 
and that I^ too, am a member of your family, I beg to ask v-hy 
you say so ? You must not tell me that you know no rea- 
son why man may not have been thus gloriously descended ; 
you must tell me why you think he was. You acknowl- 
edge, do you not, that we noio see nothing, — that authentic 
history records nothing, — of those transmutations of species 
of which you talk so glibly ? On the contrary, the lines 



472 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

of demarcation, so far as we can judge, are strictly kept 
be'tween species and sj)ecies ; and the one has no more 
tendency to pass into the other, than ' grapes to grow on 
thorns ' or ' figs on thistles.' What right have you to as- 
sume, — nay, even to conjecture, — that the peculiar fruit 
called ' man ' has grown on your tadpole-tree. 

" Nay," said he, half laughing at this way of representing 
the matter, and yet half angry too, — " though I grant that 
ice see no such transformations now, how do Ave know what 
time, — thirty, or forty, or a hundred millions of years " 

" Pray take your time," said I, smiling, " ad libitxim / — 
it is all at your disj^osal ; you can suppose as long periods 
as you 2:)lease; I am quite willing to say I cannot.^ contra- 
dict you." 

"Well, then, say in a million million hilllon of ages," he 
went on, rather warmly. " How do we know, in that time, 
what might not have taken place ? " 

I could not forbear laughing outright. "My dear fel- 
low," said I, " it is, I fancy, of no use to ask what may not 
have happened in a period of time which you do not know, 
under the ojDcration of causes of which you know nothing. 
Only, if you ask me to receive, as in the remotest degree a 
iwohahle conclusion, your notion of the transmutation of 
species, be pleased to give me your reasons. If you dream 
— dream ; if you philosophize — philosophize. But j^ray 
don't call this style of inference Baconian ' induction.' You 
will certainly make the great philosopher cry out against 
you from his * Novum Organum ' there, on the shelves be- 
hind you. You have evidently never read a line of him, 
or to no purj^ose. ' Is it from me^ young gentleman,' he 
will say, ' that you pretend to have learned to talk in this 
fashion ? Did I ever teach you to assign as a reason for 
believing in a fact, or in the faintest prohahility of a fact, 
that you do not know something ; — that you do not know 



TRANSMUTATION OF "SPECIES" THEOPwY. 473 

what might not have been done in a time you do not know, 
by causes which, equally, you do oiot know?!- Come, tell 
me your true reasons for saying, or guessing, or believing 
anything in the matter ; for this sort of ' reasoning ' really 
will not do even among plain i^eople like myself, — much 
less among philosophers." 

" Well," said he, " the theory of ' development,' fully car- 
ried out, requires it." 

" Aye," said I ; " but what requires your indcjSnite gra- 
tuitous application of the theory of development ? Why 
are we to extend it to phenomena of which we can only 
say, — Who can tell what unhnoion j^rocesses, certain ini- 
hnown causes may have operated through unknown j^eriods 
of time ? " 

" Why," he replied, " you surely do not deny that the 
theory of " develoj^ment ' of the material Avorld out of prior 
states, and those out of still j^rior ones, is made out pretty 
Well ; at leasts as regards the successive geological strata 
which compose the earth's crust ? " 

" Aye," said I ; " now you are coming to something. 
Yes ; I believe as much as you do in such j^henomena of 
'development.' But see how much more logically and 
equitably 7'act in the argument than you." 

"How so?" 

" Ask ??ie," said I, " why I believe in the gradual develop- 
ment of the geological formations." 

" I ask you," said he. 

" It is not tlien," said I, " that I do 7iot know what un- 
known agencies, oj)erating during unknown millions of 
years, may have done ; my conclusion is not something for 
which I can bring forward no facts ; but because the facts 
on which I found the opinion are patent and obvious. 
Physical causes, well known, and in operation now, — 
though I pretend not to know the varying intensities with 

40* 



474 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

wliich they may, perchance, have operated at remote pe- 
riods, — are slowly producing shnilar results before our 
eyes ; the stages of the phenomena in the past may be dis- 
tinctly traced : the geologist tells me of his conclusions, and 
also of the grounds of them, so far as his science is a science 
of induction; and, what is more, my eyes, and not my 
fancy, corroborate his observations. These observations 
show that there have been successive conditions of the 
earth's crust ; that in the latter strata there are fossil re- 
mains of organic life; that the still visible phenomena — 
the still legible hieroglyphics of their life and its condi- 
tions — attest a beautiful adaptation of the earth at various 
periods to its tenants, and a gradual preparation for the 
appearance of man. Thus much observation tells me ; but 
what has all that to do with the proofs of 'fire-mist' trans- 
formed into 'solid matter,' or tadpoles transmuted by 
various stages into rational bij)eds ? " 

I had a little further conversation with him on a fantas- 
tical notion he has formed, that there have been no " cat- 
astrophal changes," as he calls them, in the development 
of, at least, the "inorganic" world. That development, 
founding on inferences from some modern writers, he has 
decreed must have proceeded according to a law of " con- 
tinuous change." I wrote him a short letter on the sub- 
ject, a copy of which I will send you to-morrow. 

Yours, 

E. E. H. G. 



TKANSMUTATION OF "SPECIES" THEORY. 475 

LETTER CVII. 

TO THE SAME. 

1852. 
My dear Fbiend, 

I know not that your young acquaintance could j^oint 
to any one passage of his favorite writers to justify, totidon 
verbis^ his theory of " no catastrophes ; " but he can cer- 
tainly point to many which justify his inference that they 
ought to hold it. 

He affirmed that whatever became of the theory of " con- 
tinuous development," as apj^lied to the organic world, he 
must beHeve it as aj^plied to the inorganic. The letter in 
reply ran thus : — 

" Even as aj^plied to the inorganic world, — see in what 
gratuitous conclusions and flagrant contradictions your 
theory involves you. Gratuitous and contradictory I have 
already shown the theory cf development of ' species ' to be, 
if we are at all to trust that on Avhich alone we can frame 
any philosophy, — I mean ' induction.' All present facts 
— and all past, so far as history tells us anything — are 
against it ; and all you can say for it, is — that you do not 
know what may take place in fifty million of years or so. 

" But I am anxious to show you that your crude notion 
of ' continuous development,' whether apj^lied to the trans- 
mutation of sjDecies, — to the evolution of organisms, — or 
restricted to the processes of inorganic and inanimate na- 
ture, is also ' gratuitous ' in philosoj^hy, and contradictory 
to fact. You say you cannot bring yourself to believe that 
the * catastrophal^ as you call it, has ever characterized the 
evolutions by which the world has become what it is ; that 
there has ever been anything abrupt, sudden, discontinuous, 
in these metamorj^hoses ; but that all has been achieved by 
infinitesimal changes, and by a law operating with incon- 



476 THE GKEYSON LETTERS. 

ceivable slowness, in siicli a way as to elude all observation, 
except change be measured by centuries, — or, for the mat- 
ter of that, by thousands of years, — as our units of compu- 
tation; that as you now find the sea on some shores 
encroaching on the land, and on others the land gaining 
from the sea, at the rate of inches in an age, so you think it 
has always been so ; — and that all ' geological formations ' 
have been effected in the same manner by a law of con- 
tinuous change. — A 2yriori^ this may or may not be. If 
you give it merely as conjecture, I have nothing further to 
say to it. ' A dream for a dream,' another man may say. 
If you give it as philosophy^ — I beg to say that it is j^er- 
fectly gratuitous ; for, as before, what can you hnoio about 
such matters ? What can you hnoio as to whether or not 
the present rate or law of change has continued in the uni- 
verse from ei^ochs which date millions of millions of years 
back? If you rejoin that in the case of inorganic forma- 
tions, at all events, you can say what cannot be said in that 
of the 'transmutation of sj^ecies,' — that such facts as come 
under your inspection do not contradict such a notion, but 
rather confirm it, — that all the chamxes vou nova see are 
of this slow and ' continuous ' character, — I remind you, 
first, (and shall j^resently show,) that, slow as may be ter- 
restrial changes in general, facts do not accord with your 
presumed law of ' absolute continuity.' But, secondly, sup- 
posing they did — what right have you to infer from your 
observations, infinitesimal in extent and ephemeral in dura- 
tion, that you can know the law of change to have been 
the same through an extent of millions of ages, and as ex- 
emplified in the history of unnumbered worlds ? Is it not 
to fall into that very error Avhich, in spite of all Bacon's 
warnings, has so often beset the philosoi^her, — that of 
making the measure of his experience tlie measure of all 
things ; of fancying that things have always been as he has 



TRANSMUTATION OF "SPECIES" THEORY. 477 

seen them, — and that an order of things he has never seen, 
can never have existed? — a notion excusable only in a 
child, though as often entertained by the sage. In a ques- 
tion like this, the ' uniformities of antecedents and conse- 
quents ' which ice can observe, go for as little as those 
still more limited ' uniformities ' which often mislead the 
child. Observe, I am not saying that your notion may not 
be true ; — I am too cautious, apart from superhuman illu- 
mination, (to which I make no pretensions,) to philoso- 
phize on such a subject at all. The matter is beyond me. 

" If you say that thQ facts from which alone you deduce 
your inference show that, if you generalize at all, you must 
suppose that the organic changes have, as regards rate^ 
always proceeded on the same law of continuity, — I answer, 
that even if present facts were as you falsely represent 
them, altogether as you*state them, still who asks you to 
generalize for a past eternity, or millions of years ago? 
Deduce your present law, if you like, and, if deduced Jz/s^Zy 
from the facts, you have a right to hold that it is now the 
great law, and will be till you see it changed ; I say, till 
you see it changed ; for, as we know nothing of the matter 
except for the present, you really have no more right to 
indulge in absolute assertions with regard to the unlimited 
future than with regard to the unlimited past. Act in this 
case as you do in relation to other laws. You see, for ex- 
ample, that men now exist, and are born, and die, according 
to an established ' law ; ' you say, that this is a present law, 
and you say true ; but you do not therefore infer that it 
was always so, — that man is an ' eternal series,' or even 
that he is of very remote introduction into the universe. 
Do the same in relation to the facts from the observation 
of which you profess to deduce the supposed imj)ossibility 
of ' catastrophal changes ' in the evolutions of the universe. 



478 THE GREYSON LETTERS 

It is not to philosophize, but to let imagination run riot, to 
argue as you argue. 

" But I insist that your theory is also contradictory to 
fact. You say, you deduce the supposed law from the law 
of contemporaneous changes observed around you. I have 
shown the fallacious character of the conclusion, even if 
you had truly represented present facts. But you have 
not ; the facts we still observe are quite enough to demolish 
your law of rigorous ' continuous ' change. Do you ask 
how ? Why, do you not see that there are even in our 
ej)hemeral history, even in the jog-trot of our present regu- 
lar long-established system, changes of such varying magni- 
tude as to be utterly inconsistent with your law of contin- 
uous change, and quite ' catastrophal ' enough to show that, 
at remote j^eriods of our earth's history, ' catastrophes ' 
much more stupendous may have occurred ? Has not the 
earth's crust been often broken ? Have not cities and 
towns been swallowed up by earthquakes in a day, in an 
hour ? ' Catastrophal ' enough, I am sure, they must have 
been to those who were involved in them. 'Ah ! ' you will 
say, 'these " catastrophes " are too trivial to be considered 
as infractions of the general law — they are wfiniteshnal 
in relation to the entire changes going on on the surface 
of our planet.' Very well; and would not concussions 
which shook to j^ieces whole continents be mfinitesimal in 
reference to the changes going on in the solar system ? 
And would not the very extinction of our planet and of a 
dozen more be an infinitesimal change in relation to the 
whole universe ? You forget that a law of rigorous ' con- 
tinuity' knows nothing of any abrupt breaks relatively 
large or small, — nothing of proceeding per saltum. You 
confound a 'law of continuity ' with something totally differ- 
ent. You merely mean that no ' catastrophe ' which you 



TRANSMUTATION OF "SPECIES" THEORY. 479 

account ' great ' has occurred — the measure being taken 
from your own experience ; so that here again, Hke so many 
other philosophers in other directions, you make ' man the 
measure of all things.' If your law of continuity is not vio- 
lated, provided the ratio of any change to the sum total of 
the phenomena unchanged be very small, then it is possible 
that the most ' catastrophal ' change shall never involve 
what is discontinuous ; for anything, however large, may 
be regarded as infinitesimal in relation to another thing, if 
that other be allowed to be infinitely larger. Thus a * catas- 
trophe ' which might demolish the whole solar system would 
be justifiably regarded as infinitesimal in relation to the 
sphere wdiose radius is the distance of the fixed stars. If 
you apply your ' law of continuity ' rigorously, you must 
admit that the ' catastrophes ' which even the present state 
of things exhibits are incompatible with it. N'ot only so, 
but I think it would be more plausible to argue, that as 
such things as vast earthquakes and extensive volcanic 
eruptions have occurred even in the comparatively stable 
and quiet condition of our world, similar events, in all 
probability, have occurred to a much vaster extent in re- 
mote periods of the past, and may again occur in remote 
periods of the future. 

" There is this additional absurdity about the thing, — 
that your supposed ' law of continuity,' if it is not to be 
considered as broken by an earthquake, may be susceptible 
of any conceivable discrete variation, not according only to 
the ratio of the changing phenomena as compared with the 
unchanged^ but according to the capacities of the observer ! 
A gentleman who knew only Sicily, would think the ' law 
of continuity ' and the perfect freedom from ' catastrophes ' 
oddly enough illustrated, as he saw Catania sinking into 
the flood, and Herculaneum and Pompeii buried under 
lava; while a travelled cosmopolite, who had seen in twenty 



480 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

places the traces of similar desolating changes, but had also 
perceived that the general law of geologic change was very 
slow, could serenely expatiate on the law of ' continuous 
change ; ' and if he and his whole planet were shot into the 
air, a worthy inhabitant of the sun, Avho saw the faint spark 
go out, would have the same pleasant reason to insist on 
the freedom from ' catastrophes ; ' while an inhabitant of 
Sirius would hear of the explosion of the sun and all its 
planets with the like imperturbable composure, as in no 
wise more than an infinitesimal infraction of the order of 
the universe and the ' continuity ' of its changes. 

*' In truth, as I have said, any changes j^er saltura are 
sufficient to overthrow the fantastical a priori theory, that, 
in the organic evolution of the universe, change has always 
been so gradual as to be inconsistent with the supposition 
of events you vaguely denominate ' catastrophal.' ' Catas- 
trophe ' is a relative terra. The fall of a cottage is catas- 
trophe enough to those who dwell in it ; the destruction 
of a world is not, if compared with the universe. 

" Do I then contend for vast i3re-adamite catastrophes ? 
By the light of philosophy — not at all ; nor against them ; 
I simply know nothing about them. Nor do you ; and to 
pretend that we do know anything, and may pronounce on 
some airy, childish predilection for an imaginary law of 
'continuous development,' is as really to disregard the 
dictates of all Baconian induction as Aristotle did, Avhen he 
contended that the orbits of the planets must be circular, 
because a circle is the most perfect of figures. When will 
men cease thus to vault to conclusions ? Certainly philoso- 
phers often proceed i^er saltum^ whether physical changes 
ever do or not ; — not per scalas et gradatim — according 
to Bacon's method. To contend that things which took 
place, perhaps, millions of ages ago must have taken place 
in this or that way only, because our philosopher has taken 



PRIMA PIIILOSOPHIA. 481 

it into his foolish pate to patronize some abstract principle, 
is as audacious a violation of all Bacon's rules as can well 
be conceived. 

"As to what you say, that it is inconceivable to you that 
the Creator should ever have proceeded per saltum^ excuse 
rae for saying it is absolutely childish nonsense. It is to 
avow that mere prejudice and preconception shall stand for 
proof of the way in which God must have dealt with the 
tremendous problems involved in the evolution of the uni- 
verse. You really have no proof whatever that God may 
not have alternately employed both 'catastrophes' and 
' continuous changes ' at different epochs and in different 
parts of His dominions. The philosopher has nothing in 
the world to say against it, but that ' it would be quite 
shocking to him ' to think so. Serious consequence ! Surely 
if the Deity had anticipated that such ' infractions ' would 
have been attended with such a ' catastrophe ' as a philoso- 
pher's having his prejudices ' shocked,' He would have 
taken care to act only on the principle of a ' strict law of 
continuity,' and spared that thrice-sacred thing — an idolum 
trihus.'''' 

Such was the letter. Write to him soon yourself . . , . 

Yours ever, 

R. E. H, (i. 



LETTER CVTII. 

TO HIS NEPHEW T G , STUDENT IN THE UNIVER- 
SITY OF EDINBURGH, 

18.31. 

My dear Tom, 

The "Prima Philosophia, — the Philosophy of First 
Principles ! " — well, it all sounds very grand, and I have 
no doubt it will be well for j^ou to study it, as you pro- 

41 



482 THE GllEYSON LETTERS. 

pose, provided it be but in the right spirit and to the right 
end ; that is, just to sliow you what are tlie limitations of 
tlie human faculties, and then the necessity of acquiescing 
in the fundamental beliefs which those faculties impose on 
us, without further querulous comj^laints that you cannot 
get the impossible demonstrations or chimerical certitude 
of some so-called transcendental " science." But if you 
expect, what so many philosoi^hers who revolve these 
problems j^erpetually demand, and fancy, in sj^ite of so 
many failures of the wise, that they will at last attain, — 
a scientific rationale of truths which constitute reason, but 
cannot be proved by it ; or again, which are taught us by 
quite another faculty than reason, and are as incommen- 
surable with it as a triangle with a sound or an odor, you 
will be disappointed. When you have got to any such 
ultimate facts, wdiether communicated by some different 
princi2:)le of our nature from reason, — as for instance, 
sense or emotion, — or cognate with reason, as being the 
fundamental condition of its exercise, though anterior to 
reasoning, you must rest contented with them, and not go 
on, still bemoaning your benighted condition, because you 
cannot demonstrate the absolute identity of " Knowing " 
and " Being " — or bridge over the chasm between the me 
and the oiot me^ to use the affected language of a most 
pedantic philosophy — or understand the essence of either 
matter or mind, or the mode of their union — or are com- 
pelled to accept, without at all logically unravelling, the 
relations of our consciousness to an external world; in 
short, because you cannot see further into a millstone than 
other 2:>eople. If you Avill thus accept the ultimate ficts 
of our nature, Avhether taught you by sense or reason, or 
any other ultimate constituent thereof, the study of the 
"Prima Philosophia" will do you good, by letting you see 
what are the limits of your possible knowledge, and in- 



PRIMA PHILOSOPHIA. 483 

ducing an unquestioning rcj^ose in them. Yon will learn, 
as Locke says, " the length of your line," though there are 
many " depths of the ocean," you cannot fathom by it. If 
you pursue this science further, if you Avill try to give the 
rationale, of principles which transcend reason, or are 
incommensurable with it, as being of a totally different 
nature from it, or are the very foundation of reason itself; 

— if you will insist on reason's being its own foundation^ 

— constructing Xho, point dPappui on which itself rests, or 
by an infinite regression demonstrating, instead of accept- 
ing, the principles from which it starts, the " Prima Phi- 
losophia" will but leave you in darkness, — as it has done 
so many thousands more ; mistify, not enlighten you, and 
completely muddle you at last as a just punishment for 
seeking to be wise above the possibilities of your nature. 
To attempt to reason out principles, which are either 
transcendental to reason or incommensurable with it, is as 
vain as the attemj^t to weigh the imponderable — to see 
the invisible — to square the circle — to make the eye 
judge of music or the ear discriminate colors. "Ne 
sutor" may be justly addressed by the senses and the 
j^assions and the emotions to the reason, when it attempts, 
as it so often does, tyrannously to bring them under its 
own jurisdiction in points where Nature has left them free. 
The only question with a wise man will be, " Are such and 
such the ultimate principles of my nature, and of human 
nature in general; if so, I will accept them and trust 
them ; for whether they be trustworthy or not, I cannot 
help it ; I cannot go further ; they constitute the laws of 
my being, and I must philosophize on them, if I philos- 
ophize at all, for I have nothing else whereon to found a 
philosophy." 

There are two golden maxims of the old Stagyrite, 
which he is fond of repeating in more or less distinct forms, 



484 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

and which comprise, in- brief, all that can be said on the 
subject. One is, that the Reason must ultimately repose 
on principles which cannot be demonstrated ; the other is 
more general, and includes it ; namely, that the intuitions 
and faculties of our nature, whether they tell us right or 
wrong, are all Ave have to trust to, and therefore must be 
accepted as the groundwork of all jiossible philosophy. 
_Zj^ wrong they cannot possibly be set right, and must go 
for what they are worth ; since to fomid a ^^hilosophy on 
faculties Ave have not^ or on other than we have, is plainly 
impossible. The main difficulties in this matter, originate 
in the tyranny of Reason, Avliich would fain, because it is 
the regent fixculty of our nature, make itself despotic over 
all ; ^vj into things as completely out of its own sphere, 
as logic is beyond that of the senses ; pronounce on the 
validity of eiddence other than its own, and judge of fxcts 
which in the nature of thincjs cannot be referred to its 
tribunal. 

I have often thought that if Reason had not accustomed 
itself to talk just as it pleased, and monopolized the 
tongue as its peculiar organ; if the other constituents of 
our nature could have their unrestricted use of it, Ave 
should often hear a loud outcry against the usurping 
faculty. Sense and j^assion, emotion and apj^etite, Avould 
exclaim against the tendency of Reason to obtrude un- 
laAvfully into their domain, under i^retence of seeking 
superior evidence of any facts to Avhich they deposed. 
No doubt these Avorthy folks — the mob of the body cor- 
porate — Avould often use the tongue unAvisely, as Reason 
itself often does ; and sometimes speak just as if they had 
no connection Avith reason in the Avorld. Like frank, 
blundering, Irishmen, they Avould, I conceive, utter a good 
deal of crude sense, mixed Avith much nonsense, and Avitli 
the most sovereign ' contempt doubtless for those logical 



PRIMA PIIILO SOPHIA. • 485 

forms for tlie want of which it is evident my lord Reason 
chiefly contemns them. 

"What is it? " says Reason, earnestly gazing at a piece 
of chalk. " Is it anything out of me, or is it in me ? Is it 
part of the me or the oiot me? Objective or merely sub- 
jective? " 

Now methinks Sense would say, if it had the command 
of the tongue, — " What a puzzle friend Reason seems to 
be in ! Hallo ! there ; hav'n't I told you a thousand times 
that it is out of you — that it is part of your not me^ as 
you call it in your incomprehensible jargon; — it's chalky 
man, chalky and nothing else." 

" Sense," Reason w^ould reply, "how often have I told 
you that you are not competent to decide ." 

" And how often am I to tell you that I alone mn 
competent to decide this matter, and that it is because 
you will thrust your reverend head into what does not 
concern it, instead of receiving my testimony, that all 
your perplexity arises ? " 

Sense may speak too absolutely, but in what he says I 
think there is a good deal of " sense " and " reason " too. 
But Reason would eye him with an " austere smile of re- 
gard." " How shall I believe you," he would say, " when 
you have so often deceived me ? How can I trust you ? 
No — none of you shall deceive ??2e." Perhaps Passion 
would rejily in a j^assion, "Why, what a wrong-headed, 
suspicious, unreasonable, pragmatical old fool you are ! — 
Why should you think we deceive you, at least in a mat- 
ter wherein we have no interest to do so ? You deceive 
us at least as often as we do you, and get us into no end 
of awkward scrapes by your false logic. Faith ! it were 
well for you, if you were equally cautious when we can 
and do deceive you. Not deceive you, quotha ! We find 
it easy enough, I reckon, wlien you want to be deceived ; 



486 THE GllEYSON LETTERS. 

aye — we have deceived you a thousand times, in spite of 
all your fine philosophy and love of the pure truth. I 
know nobody more easily deceived than you." And then 
perhaps impudently winking at Appetite, he might ask, 
where Reason was at twelve o'clock last night ? Whether 
he was not completely extinguished, and under the table, 
babbling no end of incoherent nonsense. 

Keason, so scrupulous about the " pure truth " when he 
has got his speculative cap on, would hardly think it worth 
while to pursue this practical topic further, or vaunt his 
determination never to be deceived with the remembrance 
of such an ignominious escapade before his eyes. But he 
assumes a lofty air, and says — 

" Peace, neighbor Passion. You are too loud and boist- 
erous; you disturb my meditations. This question of a 
'phenomenal' or 'real' world is entirely an affair of mine." 

" There," Sense cries, " there you are again. It is noth- 
ing of the kind ; it is an affair of mine ; but you will have 
everything brought to your standard and measured by 
your bushel. If not, you are cheated, forsooth, and we 
are a set of knaves. It is impossible to live in peace and 
quietness with you ! " 

" Aye, aye," Appetite chimes in, " you are continually 
spoiling all wholesome digestion with your fantastical fidg- 
ets and sleepless speculation. It is impossible to hiccup 
Avithout your asking whether it is a ' real ' or an ' ideal ' 
hiccup ; I can't eat a mincepie or swallow an oyster with- 
out your asking whether it is the ' one ' or the ' not one ' 
that is going down my own throat." 

But it is all in vain — for spite of all, Reason will again 
fall into his brown study, over his lump of chalk. " I can't 
bridge the gulf over — I can't grasp it," he mutters ; "is 
it the ' one ' or the ' not one f ' " 

In vain Sense expostulates with him ; tells him that it is 



PRIMA PHILOSOPHIA. 487 

not his province. In vain Sense says, "I don't meddle 
with your ' syllogisms ' and ' intuitions ; ' do n't you meddle 
with the intuitions of Sense." — But ten to one Sense, and 
Aj^i^etite, and Passion, join in a malicious conspiracy to 
revenge themselves on the overcautious governor. Only 
Avait till supper time, and they will probably enlighten his 
High Mightiness as to which is the " me " and the " not 
me," and as to whether or not he is so very anxious never 
to be deceived ! Nay, it may even happen that, in an hour 
or so, friend Reason, after trolling out a song to the con- 
fusion of all philosophy, and Avashing with a bumper his 
metaphysical cobwebs out of his brains, will be found fairly 
on his back, wondering for his life, whether it is the '' he " 
or the " not he " that lies sprawling there — or whether it 
is not a " j^hilosopher beside himself ! " 

ISTot a soul in all " Mansoul " would be more respected 
than Keason, if he would but confine himself to his j^roper 
2)rovince ; if he would not resolve to j^ry into everything ; 
if he would but content himself with reo-nlatino; his ser- 
vants instead of attempting to do their work ; to see that 
they do not run riot or waste his substance, or idle away 
their time ; if he would not pretend to be able to perform 
their duty better than they can. Instead of that, he lets 
them do pretty much as they like where he can and ought 
to control them, and meantime runs about, susj^ecting 
everybody and pretending that no one but himself is to be 
trusted, even on points on which he cannot judge, and on 
which he must trust to testimony. All his puzzle is, be- 
cause he toill try, as the saying is, to get a quart pot into a 
pint pot — to see if "Reason " cannot be "Sense;" and he 
might as well try to smell a rose Avith his ears, as decide 
AAdiether the " not me," as he calls it, is anything else than 
Sense tells him it is. 

" A fine thing, truly," Sense may well cry, " that a man 



488 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

should assume such airs, who does not know chalk when 
he sees it — does not know whether it is out of him or in 
him — whether it is part of the ' him ' or the ' not him.' " 

I fancy Reason being so laughed at, would be aj^t to be 
mistaken for Passion. 

I confess it makes me angry to hear Reason so often in- 
sisting on the deceptions and illusions practised by those 
poor, faithful drudges, the senses, — when I consider that 
his worship is deceived, and deceives himself just as often, 
or much oftener ; and above all, when I consider that for 
half their time, they are all " in the same condemnation," 
and deceived alike ; that is, every night ! I seldom wake 
without feeling inclined to say to this suspicious, truth- 
loving gentleman, "Pray, your worship, would you have 
me think all that nonsense which you nightly amuse or 
terrify me w^ith, and which at the time you take to be all 
perfectly sensible, for gospel ? Tales of dead men talking, 
and fishes flying, and men changed into cats, — and syllo- 
gisms constructed in defiance of all your boasted logic ? — 
If all this is a j^art of your one., I think the not me of honest 
old Sense is just as trustworthy." To this taunt Reason 
never made me any rational answer. 

By the way, I have been amused when I have sometimes 
seen the averments of most logical Skepticism that no g\'\- 
dence could ever induce its well-j^oised judgment to believe 
in a " miracle," when it has but to lay its head on its pil- 
low, and in half an hour it will believe in a thousand 
without any evidence at all ; thinks it is talking quite ra- 
tionally with a dog, or believes that it is itself transfonned 
into a winged monkey. 

Such is a brief lucubration, my dear lad, on the " Prima 
Philosophia," and like most on the same subject is nonsensi- 
cal enough ; but if it at all more vividly imj^resses on you 
the great lesson of giving to Reason only the things of 



"ENCOMIUM ATHEISML" 489 

Reason, and to Sense the things of Sense, — but above all, 
to Faith the things of Faith ; and, in a word, to every con- 
stituent of our nature, the ultimate f^icts of which it is 
destined to certify us ; if it teaches the duty of resting in 
these as ultimate facts, which must be accepted whether 
we like it or not ; — the term and Hmit of all our philoso- 
2)hy, because right or wrong, the only possible philosophy 
must be restricted by them and constructed out of them : 
if it shall prevent you from trying to make things incom- 
mensurable coincide, — squaring the circle, — measuring a 
curved surface by a straight rule, — trying the testimony of 
Sense by Reason, or the intuitions of Reason by Sense, — 
it may, I think, be as serviceable to you as many a more 
l^rofound, and much darker, treatise on "x\bsolute Sci- 
ence," and the relations of the one and the not me. Within 
its proper province, no more suifer Reason to question 
the information of Sense, than Sense to question the au- 
thority of Reason ; and if Reason tells you that the 
senses often deceive, tell Reason that it deceives just as 
often, and deceives not only others but itself into the bar- 
gain. 

Your loving uncle, 

E. E. n. G. 



LETTER CIX. 

TO THE SAME. 

1851. 

My dear Tom, 

Courage ! If you choose to read a paper in your little 
" Debating Society," of the kind you describe, for the ben- 
efit of the three or four sucking Atheists you tell me it 
contains, I am sure you may find plenty to say. If Erasmus 
could write in " Praise of Folly," it may not be impo^ sible 



490 THE GliEYSON LETTERS. 

to pfinegyrizo Atheism — indeed it is a brancli of the very 
same subject. There are plenty of topics for yonr irony, 
and I do not care if I give you two or three brief hints. 

For examj)le : — Atheists, I think, are unjustly accused 
of liaving no '"''faith; " surely there is no class of men who 
have so much. In the first plac-c : what transcendent fiiith 
is required to receive any one of their hypotheses, all of 
which seem so grotesque and ridiculous to the rest of the 
world that not one out of a million can be got to believe 
them, or even to believe that they believe them ! What 
faith is required to believe that exquisite order is the pro- 
duct of Chance ; or the exactly opposite hypothesis, that 
unintelligent Necessity has imposed all-wise law ! What 
faith to believe that men sprang from nothing — or have 
been an eternal series ; or, if you dislike that, — that they 
were " developed " out of monkeys, and all too without in- 
telligence anywhere at all. It is easy for us unbelievers to 
ridicule these things ; but who can estimate the faith neces- 
sary to believe them ? 

I consider that a still more transcendent exercise of faith 
is implied in the very prosecution of the Atheist's enter- 
prise. His efforts to convince men of his paradoxes — his 
truly child-like exj^ectation of success, of a universal Athe- 
istical millennium at last, — what a gigantic exercise of faith 
is here ! All " induction " would go to prove the hopeless- 
ness of his project, if any one fact vms ever estabhshed by 
induction. Atheists appear, — one or two in an age or so, — 
and when they do appear, the great bulk of mankind doubt 
whether they ever have appeared ! The world is so little 
disposed to listen to them — that it pretends to doubt 
whether the Atheists are really what they affect to be; 
nay, many doubt whether there can be, or ever was, such a 
thing as an Atheist ; you must take your lantern and search 
as diligently to find him as Diogenes his honest man. No 



"ENCOMIUM ATHEISMI." 491 

one affects to doubt whether there be such a thing as a 
Theist — everybody knows there are millions of them ; but 
as to the unlucky Atheist, his very existence, like that of 
the Kraken, is a perpetual problem : and yet, faithful soul ! 
he does not doubt that all will at last become orthodox 
Atheists. Seeing that it is so, what but a " Faith " beyond 
that of the Syrophenician woman can inspire his hopes of 
success ? Aj^art from that, and if he listened to Reason 
only, he would argue that whether there be a God or not, 
mankind have manifested such an all but uniform and 
obstinate tendency to believe there is, that we may be as 
sure as of any fact ever established by " induction " that he 
unll always exhibit it ; that he will be always apt to extend 
his inferences of design^ from the analogies of his own ac- 
tions, to whatever is stamped with the same cliaTcicteristlcs 
in the universe around him, rather than believe in the 
Atheist's unintelligible " chance " or " necessity," or unin- 
telligent and unintelligible anything else ! Any one, there- 
fore, but an Atheist, " full of fliith," would give the thing 
up as a bad job ; he would say, "It is hopeless to contend 
against what I see is an incurable defect of my ' fortuitous ' 
or ' necessitated ' human idiot ; his ' cerebral development ' 
does not admit of the Teuth being established ; I shan't 
Avaste my breath on the reprobate, nor ' cast my pearls be- 
fore swine.' — Though there is no God, (that Zam privileged 
to know very well,) yet I see that Chance or Necessity has 
so bungled the matter, (as I might justly expect would be 
the case,) tliat men will perversely believe in one ; right or 
wrong in tlieir conclusion, (Z know them WTong,) yet such 
is the constitution of their faculties that long experience 
shows tliey must and will abide by it ; why should I make 
the hopeless attempt to convert them ? " And surely for 
the reason just assigned, if an Atheist were but as full of 
" reason " as he is full of " faith," he ought cheerfully to 



492 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

acquiesce in tins view, and say, " Could I expect it to be 
otherwise ? or why not at least as well expect it so, as any 
way ? If there be no intelligent Cause of all things, ought I 
not rather to expect that men would think wrong on this sub- 
ject than right ? — Why should I imagine that the blind 
cause which has fashioned men, has constituted them rather 
to see the great truth that there is no God than to be blind 
to it ? Could I expect that Chance would not err, or that 
blind Necessity should infallibly see its way ? Plague on 
the universe ! It has so framed itself and man in it, that 
man will rather believe that there is a Deity than the 
contrary ! " 

Now matters being thus hopeless, I say we might nat- 
urally expect that an Atheist would quietly " put his candle 
under his bushel," and oiot " let his light shine before men " 
— regarding his " teaching " as vain, and his " faith " also 
vain. Yet see the power of " Faith." Every age or so, you 
get one solitary voice — sometimes perhaps two, " crying 
in the wilderness," — a wilderness, truly, — and proclaiming 
the advent of that better age when men will renounce all 
their puerile ideas of Deity. Even under such desperate 
circumstances, these faithful souls do not despair of tlie 
universal conversion of the human race ! I j^rofess to you 
I do not know anywhere such an instance of simple unrea- 
soning belief. I am sure it may be said of such men — "Lo, 
we have not found so great faith — no, not in Israel, nor 
even among the Hottentots ! " 

Another topic of panegyric is, I think, the great fecund- 
ity of their theories. Atheists are too often represented as 
just proj^ounding difficulties and leaving us in difficulties 
still greater, while they will not readily commit themselves to 
any positive theory of the universe. On the contrary, I am 
disposed rather to wonder at the fertility of their hypotheses ; 
for though, unluckily, very discordant, they are various 



" ENCOMIUM ATHEISML" 493 

enough in nil conscience. I am astounded at the ease with 
whicli a universe can be constructed. If we may trust some 
of these men, to originate a world is a mere bagatelle. Diffi- 
cult ! Why, the Universe may have originated in any of a 
dozen ways, excejyting only from Intelligent Power, or it may 
never have originated at all ! The most exquisite and elabor- 
ate appearances of design, and which stuj^id every-day people 
think are most naturally accounted for in that humdrum 
way, may be accounted for by anything rather than that. 
What originality — what fertility of conception is here! 
Some say that the universe sprang from a " fortuitous con- 
course of eternal atoms," which having exhausted, in infin- 
ite ages, infinite combinations, at last most opportunely 
fell into the present form ; some, that it is the necessary 
development of the "essential properties of eternal mat- 
ter ; " one man tells ns that all " organic forms " and all 
" organic life " are the result of the " plastic powers of 
nature," whatever that may mean ; another says that man 
is eternal ; — antecedent men and consequent babies — or 
antecedent babies and consequent men forever ; though 
whether babies first came from men, or men from babies, 
must remain an " eternal " puzzle ; some say that neither is 
true, but that man came from a monkey, millions of ages 
ago, and a monkey from a tadpole millions of ages before 
that, and a tadpole from — a particle of albumen and a 
spark of electricity, — millions of ages before that ; and 
these from a " fire-mist " — heaven knows, or rather does not 
know, how many millions of ages before that, and that all 
this may have been without any intelligence at all ! Some 
say, with M. Comte, that all the appearances of " design " 
are nothing in the world to surprise us, and do not at all 
infer it ; they are nothing but the " conditions of being," 
without which things could not exist, and consequently 
imply only that things are as they are^ for if they were 7iot 

42 



494 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

SO, tliey would not be — all which is surely as plain as the 
nose on your iiice ; some say that birds got wings (nothing 
easier) by the " appetency " to fly, and dogs stomachs by 
the " aj3petency " to eat ; others, on the contrary, that dogs 
got " appetency " to eat because the plastic powers had 
given them stomachs, and birds the " appetency " to fly 
because they had wings, — and which is first, " appetencies " 
or " organs," " organs " or " appetencies," may be a doubt, 
— but surely either will account for the phenomena ; some 
say that the various orders of animated beings originated 
in " prolific matter " running in " internal moulds " or 
" matrices " (whatever that means); and if you ask why we 
do not daily see new monsters, I suppose it must be said that 
the said " matrices " were all long ago exhausted ; or, if 
you ask why we do not at least see new individuals of ex- 
isting species originated in this very obvious and natural 
way by means of such a matrix, I suj^pose it must be said 
that the original matrices are all broken to pieces ! Some 
say that the true doctrine is very different, and that one 
species has been developed out of another, and transmuted 
into another by a necessary law ; that though no present 
facts are in favor of such a theory, yet that is no reason why 
you should not believe (and certainly as little reason why you 
should) that such things may have happened fifty million 
years ago ; and that you may even see a trifle or two of the 
same kind, confirming this obvious hypothesis, if you only 
live for thirty millions of years to come. Others there are 
who tell us that the whole universe is an ideal thing; and 
(• )nipressing the voluminous phenomenon into the one mind 
that alone thinhs it into being, reduces everything to the 
solitary *' ego," — of which pleasing theory there are at 
least half a dozen, modifications. In these and manifold 
other ways, has Atheism evinced its fertility of invention ; 
and, instead of being upbraided for its barrenness and want 



"ENCOMIUM ATHEISMI." 495 

of originality, should rather be admired for the facility with 
which it discovered (when poor common sense thouglit it 
philosophy to assign an obvious and adequate cause of all 
in Power and Intelligence) a dozen unthonght of methods 
of doing the same thing, and proved by example as well as 
precept that it can dispense with all intelligence, even its 
own, in the manufacture of worlds ! 

But I consider the great triumph of Atheistical genius, 
and the crowning glory of all its achievements, consists in 
the ingenious logical securities, of various kinds, which it 
has taken against the possibility of God's making Himself 
hiiown; so that if there he a God, He, with all His omnip- 
otence, cannot manifest Himself. " Xe plaisant Dieu que 
voila!'^'' one may say with Pascal. First, it is shown that 
He does not exist ; and then, if He does exist, that it is not 
possible for him to prove to us that He does. What so 
easy ? "I see," says the elder Atheist, *' so much confu- 
sion and irregularity in the universe, that I cannot believe 
that infinite intelligence and wisdom presides over it." " I 
see," says a modern Atheist, "nothing in the universe but 
the presence of uniform and necessary law ; — nothing arbi- 
trary, and therefore no will, as M. Comte sublimely argues, 
for will is essentially capricious y" — so that whatever comes 
of it, you see the Atheist is safe. If he sees apparent con- 
fusion^ it is a proof that there is no presiding Deity ; if he 
sees law^ then, with M. Comte, it is a proof that there is no 
originating will ! One says there is so much chance, that a 
God is out of the question ; — another says that strict neces- 
sity reigns over everything, and therefore excludes one. "I 
see nothing," says another, " in all you call proofs of con- 
trivance and design in the universe ; if there loere design, 
it would leave such traces, but these are not its traces ;" 
and for the same reasons he can argue in the same way, if 
the apparent traces of design were a thousand fold as great 



496 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

(if that be possible) as they are ; hence again the hapless 
Deity cannot create such a world as can convince the Athe- 
ist — cannot make Himself known. Once more ; — "If there 
he an Infinite Being," says another, " a finite mind cannot 
comprehend Him ; and if there be an infinite Spirit^ a mind 
that receives its conceptions only through material symbols 
can never come in contact with Him!" Thus God cannot 
come out of His prison — for such it is — His prison of in- 
finite and eternal essence ! Who but must admire the ways 
in which Atheism can not only prove that there is no God, 
but that if there be one — it comes to exactly the same thing, 
for he can never certify us of His existence ? 

Yours truly, 

E. E. IIo G, 



LETTER ex. 

TO THE SAME. 

KOY. 12, 1851 

My DEAR Tom, 

Your last letter would have been most amusing, had not 
the subject been so painful. Your description of your young 
fellow-student's j^aradoxes is very racy, and shows that you 
have talents far too good to be thrown away on Atheism. 
Never did I see a more grotesque monster in logic than the 
fright of a theory you have portrayed. As Stillingfleet said 
of another theory — " It is like the bird of Athens, all face 
and feathers ! " 

However, you may thank him for conceding that though 
the argument for a God from " Design " is, in his sage judg- 
ment, " worthless," the infinite j^robability from induction^ 
— from the facts of past experience, — is, that the generality 
of mankind will never see it to be such ; so that the Athe- 
ist's "occupation" is "gone," or his work must be ever 



NOTICE OF SOME ATPIEISTICAL SOPHISMS. 497 

doing, never done ! Thus Atheists, though doubtless con- 
stituting, according to his estimate, the intellectual Ulte^ the 
aristocracy of humanity, must continue to be what they 
ever have been, a very minute fraction of the s^^ecies. I 
shall not expatiate on the modesty of the suj^position, that 
he, at the age of twenty, or thereabouts, has already climbed 
up to that peerage of wisdom ; nor at the compliment which 
he pays the vast majority of mankind whom he thus dooms 
to be plebeian Theists. It is sufficient to have the consola- 
tion of knowing that his cause is hopeless; that so far as 
we yet know, or have any ground to surmise, — the Truth, 
if he have it, cannot be established, and that our Philosophy 
and Theology, being necessarily the result of the constitu- 
tion of man (whether God or chance originated that con- 
stitution,) will still contend for the dogma he denies; so 
that if there be no God, God will still be acknowledged and 
worshipped. Impotent indeed must he and the Atheists be, 
since they cannot get rid of a — Nonentity ! 

But I could not help laughing outright at the magnani- 
mous declaration, d la Hume, that though it be proved that 
his "Truth" can never be established as long as human 
nature remains what it is, — nay, though it were proved 
that his " Truth " threatened the most pernicious and deso- 
lating effects, — yet that " Truth " is " Truth," and he must 
prize it above all things ! — that there is no " possession like 
it " — that " Truth never in the end did anybody any harm" 
— " that instinct tells him so !" 

In his case, it must indeed be "Instinct," — for assuredly 
it cannot be reason. Why, what a mere lump of cotton- 
wool must this youth's brains be ! It is natural enough for 
you or for me to indulge this presumption of the infinite 
value of Truth ; but if notions of Truth and Error be sup- 
posed the result of the imintelligent construction of our 
7iature^ — that nature, moreover, being so constructed that 

42* 



498 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

the majority, it seems, will contimTe to cling to Error, and 
not to Truth, — what possible reason can he have to suppose 
Trutli to he such an invaluable possession ? Practically^ it 
cannot be ; for it is monopolized, it appears, by half a dozen 
Atheists in a corner ! According to his theory, nobody 
constituted the laws of the understanding by which lie says 
he receives "Truth;" and surely therefore it is an even 
chance whether Truth or Error be the more valuable pos- 
session of man, especially as only a few score can ever hope 
to attain the former ! 

But every other absurdity dwindles beside his fantastical 
argument that even if the argument from "Design" be 
established to the full, it will not prove that God is — Infi- 
nite ; and, therefore, is to go for little ! It will only prove, 
he says, that God is capable of having " constructed such a 
miiverse as this ! " That is, it will only l>ave proved that 
He could foresee all the relations — devise all the expedients 
— construct all the laws — necessary for the stable existence 
of some few millions of millions of worlds! That He had 
"power and wisdom" sufficient for this little business is 
shown, — but the argument proves no more! Looking to 
this petty world alone. He has been able to organize the 
unspeakably diversified forms of animal and vegetable life, 
• — an exhaustless variety of exquisite structures; He has 
exactly calculated the relations of these to one another, and 
to the tremendous physical laws with which they stand con- 
nected; so exactly that though a very slight error might 
have involved all in ruin, such error is excluded; — still — 
still — the argument from design would 07ily prove, so our 
aspiring young genius assures us, that the Deity is equal to 
such trivial things as these; and that unless we can prove 
his power and wisdom "absolutely infinite," it must all go 
for nothing! 

He must pardon me. I think that, practically^ nothing 



NOTICE OF SOME ATHEISTICAL SOPHISMS. 499 

in the world depends on such proof, in the estimate of 
anybody who does not deserve to be strait-waistcoated 
and shut up in Bedlam. For — 

/ 1st. Supposing the argument (as this theory does) 
from "Design" just and well founded " as far as it goes;" 
that there is a God who is possessed of "Power and 
Wisdom " to the extent in which He has displayed them 
in His works, — which is indefinitely (to avoid our 
Atheist's forbidden term, "infinitely") beyond our ade- 
quate conception ; then, I maintain, that even if it were 
^:)?'oy6(f, that these attributes, — as really beyond our ade- 
quate conception as if they Avere infinite, — nevertheless 
are not infinite; nothing, in the estimate of a rational 
creature, would depend on it. Suppose, for example, the 
Divine power and wisdom, capable, if you will, of being 
expressed mathematically, by taking as a unit of i^ower 
and Avisdom, Hercules and N'ewton combined; and that 
the Divine power and wisdom are to this unit in the ratio 
of 1000, raised to a poAver expressed by a decimal number 
Avith as many ciphers as Avould reach from here to Saturn, 
to 1, — Avould our relations to this tremendous Being be 
in any conceivable Avay other than they are ? AYould He 
not still be that Being " in Avliose hand our breath is, and 
Avhose are all our Avays ? " Should we not, long before Ave 
had reached a millionth part of the Avay toAvards a con- 
ception of the meaning of that tremendous " decimal," find 
all our faculties completely overwhelmed, and all traces of 
distinction, except in mere Avords, betAveen "indefinite" 
and " infinite," lost ? Should Ave not be compelled to say, 
"This is not infinite, because I am told it has hounds — 
but all idea of the hoio much has already A^anished be- 
fore I have integrated the trecillionth of those limits?" 
Woidd not such a God be entitled to our absolute rcA'- 
erence, homage, Avorship, obedience, simply because, in fin- 



500 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

ite or not, He would be wortliy of the uttermost all that 
the fealty of such creatures as we are could express, even 
though He were a million times less than I have suj^posed 
Ilim ? Nay, if He were a million times less, should we 
have faculties even to discern the difference ? Would He 
not relatively to us be as absolutely incomprehensible as if 
He icere infinite? But — 

2dly. I remark, that since, for aught we know, a com- 
prehension of all the relations of the constituents of an 
actual universe like the present, may demand an exact 
knowledge of all possible relations of every particle, how- 
ever minute, to every other, and that through eternal 
duration, this may involve the very infinitude which the 
sophist disputes ; and, if so, the argument from " Design " 
proves more than he imagines. It proves that the Divine 
wisdom and knowledge at least may be, even in the 
present manifestation of these attributes, not unlimited 
merely, but infinite. But alas ! as before, long before we 
had comjileted a millionth part of the computation, God 
would have become practically infinite to us by our utter 
incapacity of saying whether He was " infinitely " or " in- 
definitely" endowed with knowledge and wisdom. 

3dly. I must observe that even if God can create, or 
ever has created, (if such a thing be possible, though I 
confess it seems otherwise,) an infinite universe, so that if 
we could but grasp it, there would lie before us an infinite 
proof of an infinite God, our young logician, who thus 
plays bo-peep with his "infinities," would be in just the 
same condition as at j^i'esent ; for long before his concep- 
tions had got half as far as the limits even of this visible 
universe, they would be utterly confounded, and he would 
be obliged to take the demanded proof for granted! 
Whether the universe, thus looked at Avith his micro- 
scopic eye, were infinite or not, would be still impossible 



NOTICE OF SOME ATHEISTICAL SOPHISMS. 501 

for liim to ascertain. If so, then, though the argument 
from "Design " (in this case a just induction) would prove 
God to he infinite, yet as the finite cannot comprehend 
that infinite induction, the very proof would be incom- 
prehensible to our Atheistical logician ; nay, he would be 
compelled to say that he did not know he had got his 
required proof even when he had it, and Avould be obliged 
to stop short, as now, at what was " indefinite." That is, 
our sophist would still have it to say that he could not 
tell Avhether God was infinite or not ! 

4thly. Relatively to God, all our j)ossible conceptions 
will be the same, whether God be " unlimited " or truly 
" infinite ; " and that because, whether He be infinite or 
not, the ratio of the Creator to us will be in efiect the same 
as if He were infinite ; it will be so, if not from His abso- 
lute greatness, yet from our relative littleness, and will be 
expressed, if justly expressed at all, by the symbols by 
which we denote our only possible conceptions of the 
Infinite. The metaphysics of the Calculus may serve to 
illustrate this matter. It teaches us that it is the ratio 
between two quantities, not their absolute magnitude, 
which determines their value, when we compare them; 
and in this light, man becomes nothing^ — that is, may be 
thrown aside as an "infinitesimal," long before we get to 
the conception of such a Being as the Fabricator of the 
Universe, — to say nothing of His being truly " infinite." 
Relatively to such a Being, we are nothing, even if He be 
not infinite ; and zero to unity must still exj^ress i)oor 
little man's A^anishing sjmibol. 

" Une parcelle de matiere magnetique," says Leibnitz, 
when expounding his theory of infinitesimals, "qui passe 
a travers du verre, n'est pas comparable avec un grain du 
sable, ni ce grain avec le globe de la terrc, ni le globe avec 
le firmament." 



502 THE GllEYSON LETTERS. 

Now wliat is tlie ratio of the " parcelle mfignetique " to 
tlie entire universe? Such is man to Ilim who created 
both; and. thus, as I have ah-eady said, our '•'• relations'''' to 
Him are the same, whether He be Himself only unlimited 
beyond our conceptions, or truly infinite, as you and I 
believe Him to be. To iis^ the Being who created all 
things, — conserves them, — can destroy them, — rules us, 

— can annihilate us, — will judge us, — is God to us^ 
whether He be infinite or not. 

5thly. If it be true that the argument from " Design " 
must be " barren " unless it proves an infinite God, it fol- 
lows that if God, though infinite, cannot create an infinite 
imiverse, which to most intellects will not seem impos- 
sible, (rather, the contrary will seem a contradiction,) then, 
according to the ingenious reasoning of our Atheist, little 
man would always have it in his power to say that it is 
simply impossible that even Omnipotence, (let it struggle 
as it will,) can ever evince itself by its works. The same 
illustrious sophism would still frustrate the poor efibrts of 
the Almighty; all His works, however His Omnipotence 
may tax itself, — must be similarly "baiTcn." If a uni- 
verse were created a million times as big, as beautiful, or 
A'arious as that we behold ; or a third of a million times more 
stu})endous than that, what then? "It is but limited 
stili," the poor fiinte human i^article exclaims. — Tiiily, I 
think man is ingenious in making capital out of his 
poverty — his obscure notion of the "Infinite." It serves 
him in excellent stead; he cannot comprehend the Infinite 

— but, nevertheless, he can, by conjuring with the bare 
word, overmaster and imprison the Infinite itself! Tlie 
Infinite, so far from infinite, shrinks to nothing, and 
cannot manifest itself! All that it does, however vast and 
glorious, ]uust still \)q finite — and finite man can judge of 
tliat^ and pronounce it altogether an insufiicient manifes- 



NOTICES OF SOME ATIIiaSTICAL SOPHISMS. 503 

tation of an Infinite Deity. So that here again, — as I 
said in my last letter in reference to other Atheistical 
arguments, — God is much to be pitied in conflict with the 
superior astuteness of man ! I remarked, that if the indi- 
cations of design in the universe do not prove a divine 
artificer of it, the same may just as well be said of any 
other marks of apparent wisdom in any other (and imag- 
inably) greater works of God ; so that, as Paley justly 
says, the Atheist must in effect afiirm that God cannot in 
this way make His existence known at all. And now it 
seems, by a similar refinement, even if it be granted that 
the argument from d<?«ign he just as far as it goes, nothing 
effectual is done unless it prove an Infinite God ; and as 
there ca7i7iot be an infinite universe. His Omnipotence 
cannot manifest Him at all. Truly, I think the Deity is 
in evil case. Exist He may, but He cannot make His 
existence known. Infinite He may be, but He cannot 
manifest His infinitude. Omnijootent He may be, but 
practically He is imjDotent. 

The finite may form an obscure notion of the Infinite, 
but can never comprehend it. Man knows, in the course 
of the necessary evolution of thought, that the Infinite must 
be, but the Infinite itself he cannot know ; for that would 
be a contradiction. Let but the Atheist, therefore, make 
his admission of a Deity depend on the apprehension of it, 
and nothing can be more happy than his position. If he 
were Infinite, he may urge, then he could grasp the Infinite, 
and would see that God was such ; if he had no inkling of 
the infinite, then he could not be troubled with any diffi- 
culty as to whether God was infinite or not, and would say, 
perhaps, that he was satisfied to worship a Maker of " all 
things." But now, being finite, and yet having an " ob- 
scure notion " of the Infinite, he cannot tell whether any- 
thing corresponds to it or not : and therefore he must ever 



504 THE GRKYSON LETTERS. 

be in a happy dubiety whether there be an Infinite God or 
not, and less than proof of tliis will not satisfy his convenient 
scrupulosity ! What a treasure, my dear boy, especially 
in these days, is an obscure idea ! For by it, the ingenious 
Atheist, let the argument from " Design " be ever so 
strong, can always grumble, since it can never prove an 
Infinite God ; — and as for an " unlimited " God. — why 
that is far too paltry a conclusion to satisfy Jiwi. 

The proper answer to all this metaphysical folly is that I 
have already given, that if there be a Creator of all things, 
our relations to Ilim are not altered by these refinements. 

I wish I could add that there had never been any Theists 
who make a needless parade of these same refinements ; 
and who, in truth, are little better than the Atheists' meta- 
physical decoy-ducks ; — who are so wedded to some pedan- 
tic a priori method of proof that they would sooner be 
Atheists, than Theists by any other road than their own ; 
sooner let the greatest of all truths perish than establish it 
by any arguments but such as are, in their esteem, meta- 
physically ortJiodox. If they, as they contend, have an 
immediate " intuition " of the " Infinite," and an immediate 
co?isciousness of an Infinite Being who corresponds to it, 
— let them, as Locke says, " enjoy the benefit" of their 
own perspicacity. I am sure that the very obscurest in- 
timations, the merest inklings of the Infinite which our 
consciousness, may give us, are well worth attending to ; 
but seeing that so many doubt Avhether there are any 
articulate utterances conveyed by such whispers of our 
consciousness ; many more, who believe they are but vague 
presumptions, — auxiliary to other proofs, but proving little 
apart from them ; and many more to whom any arguments 
derived from such sources are incomprehensible : — seeing, 
on the other hand, that the argument from " Design " is 
that which most strikes and has ever most struck mankind ; 



BRIEF ANSWERS TO THREE QUERIES. 505 

and lastly, that if it be admitted np to the full extent of 
the inferences which such a universe as this affords, our 
relations to the Creator are the same, whether He or His 
work can be proved by us to be infinite, or not, I confess I 
have not patience to hear the fantastical depreciations of 
this class of proofs, in which some Theists indulge ; merely 
because they think they can get to the same truth by a 
darker and more intricate passage ! Sure I am that their 
declamation, equally pompous and obscure, on this point, 
tends to nothing but to confirm Atheists in their absurdity. 
In conclusion, my dear youth, I would recommend you 
to warn W. F. that if he ever meet with any Being who 
has the millionth of a billionth of the power and wisdom 
which (supposing the argument from design, valid) the 
Creator and Governor of this universe must be endowed 
with, he will do well not to stand disi:)uting with him as to 
the extent and limits of his prerogatives. That Being may 
not have the patience to listen to his metaphysical imperti- 
nence, which, happily for him, his Gracious Maker has ! 
The philosopher was wise who would not dispute with the 
master of thirty legions ; your friend will be still wiser not 
to dispute with Him, who, however "limited," is the 
Master of so many worlds. 

Believe me. 

Ever yours faithfully, 

E. E. n. G. 



LETTER CXCXI. 

TO THE SAME. 

1852. 

My dear Tom, 

I have but little time to-day, to reply to your three 
queries ; but a few words will suffice. 

43 



506 THE GREYSON LETTERS 

Your remarks on the defects of Paley's Ethical Theory, 
(which, I was glad to see, never imposed upon you,) are 
perfectly just. The greatest objection of all, however, you 
do not touch ; I mean, that the utilitarian hypothesis can 
by no means account for the peculiar conceptions and terms, 
universal as thought and language, wdiich imply the ideas 
of duty — the " ought " and the " ought not." Let an 
action be ever so generally, ever so universally useful^ it 
could never carry us beyond the notion of the^:>n«c7e?i^, and 
the conception of duty would still have to be accounted 
for. It is perfectly and uniformly 2;)rudent for us not to 
receive base coin, just as it is perfectly and uniformly pru- 
dent not to 2)ay our debts in it ; but we should think that 
a man deserved to be hanged, who applied only the term 
" prudent " to both. It is j^rudent, indeed, to guard against 
being cheated, and not to cheat ; but no soj^histry can 
make us feel that prudence is cdl that is involved in both 
cases : yet if the utilitarian theory be true, ought w^e not 
so to reason ? It is always prudent to eat when we are 
hungry, and cdso always prudent not to put our hands into 
our neighbor's pockets ; but the moral distinction between 
these two perfectly prudent things is palj^able enough, and 
no ingenuity can obliterate it ; yet if Paley's theory be 
true, I see not how we can get beyond the idea of prudence 
in either case, or how the peculiar and superinduced idea 
of duty could ever originate. 

Nothing in my judgment will account for it, except the 
supposition that w^e are endowed with a " moral sense," or 
with what is equivalent to it ; that is, either w ith a single 
faculty, the province and ]3i'ei'ogative of which, is to gene- 
rate the peculiar class of ideas signified by obligation and 
duty ; or else a combination of powers, the action and inter- 
action of which, in the course of our development, as infalli- 
bly leads to these notions, as if we had a separate faculty. 



BRIEF ANSWERS TO THREE QUERIES. 507 

In the one case, conscience would be a distinct endowment 
— in the other, a resultant of many forces ; but in either 
case leading to the formation of those peculiar moral con- 
ceptions for the existence of which we wish to accomit, and 
for which Paley's theory does not account. 

And here I would remark, that the theory of " con- 
science," w^iether it be simple or complex, is not inconsist- 
ent with those varieties of moral judgment in men which, 
you observe, form so plausible an objection to this theory ; 
for it is not inconsistent with our experience that the most 
undoubted faculties of our nature may exhibit wide devia- 
tions from their normal condition, — great irregularities 
and varieties of action in different individuals of the race ; 
and these, within the limits observed, may be accounted 
for by custom, association, mal-instruction. But generic 
conceptions cannot be accounted for, without the distinct 
faculties adapted to form tliem, Avhether the conceptions 
themselves be right or wrong. Thus tlie eye may see well 
or ill, clearly or dimly ; but to see at all^ — to have the 
conceptions of light and color, — implies the distinct faculty 
of vision. Similarly, while, on the theory of a moral sense, 
or something equivalent to it, we can account for its divari- 
cations from a normal state, we cannot, by Paley's theory, 
account for the very origination of the fundamental con- 
ceptions of right and wrong. It can never carry us beyond 
the idea of prudent or imprudent. Hence, phenomena of 
human nature, as indisputable and universal as any other, 
seem to me, on that theory, still to require a solution. 

As to your second query, how far our modern Atheists 
are justified in pleading Bacon's occasional invectives 
against inferences from " final causes," as fortifying their 
doubts of the validity of the " Argument from Design," I 
answer, that if they would only read Bacon with candor, 
they would feel that they were not justified at all. Noth- 



508 THE GREYSON LETTERS. 

mg can be plainer than that he did not mean to affirm, uni- 
versally, that "arguments from final causes" must be 
sophistical ; but merely that as they often rcere so, and 
philosophers had been, in every age, but too apt to pre- 
judge the results of an enlarged induction by their narrow 
a iwiori concei">tions of the purpose of this or that, it well 
became men of science to be perpetually on their guard 
against such a source of fallacy. But he who said that " he 
would sooner believe all the fables of the Talmud than that 
this universal frame was without a mind " could not be the 
idiot which some of our modern Atheists would make him ; 
nor intend to imj^ly that inferences from "final causes" are 
universally precarious. They are so very often, no doubt ; 
and this, in laying down the very canons of all philosophiz- 
ing, was quite sufiicient reason for Bacon's jealousy and 
caution. If a lioness were to say to a lion, " My dear, what 
can be the reason that those curious bipeds without hair or 
feathers, which we find such peculiarly delicate eating, 
whenever we can get hold of them, come into the world 
without the rougher integuments which our j^rey in gen- 
eral exhibit ? " — the lion might j^erhaps rej^ly, " It is noth- 
ing, love, but a kindly provision of Providence ; man is a 
delicacy sj^ecially j^rovided for us nobler creatures; our 
mouths are not filled with bristles or feathers in eating 
him. This was the 'final cause' why these two legged 
creautures have such smooth skins." This, it is true, would 
only ju'ove that the lion was a bad j^hilosopher ; though it 
is much after the same wise manner that many philosophers 
have argued from " final causes." But nevertheless, it does 
not follow that he would be an equally foolish philosopher 
who argued that if the "final cause" of the telescope is to 
perform a certain jiurjiose, the eye, with its infinitely more 
subtle and accurate adaptations to the same purpose, had 
a similar " final cause." In other words, the argument from 



UiilEF ANSWERS TO THREE QUERIES. 509 

" final causes " may, like most things in the world, be used 
well or ill ; and it is against its frequent ill use that Bacon 
would guard us. 

As to your third query. You ask how it is that while it 
must be admitted as a fact that men almost universally 
concur in the behef of a God, and that, if Induction can be 
trusted at all, they always will, there sliould, yet be such 
differences as to the most cogent modes of j^roving this 
most cardinal of all trutlis ? and whether there ouscht to be 
such various estimates formed of the validity of the differ- 
ent lines of Theistic argument, since those who squabble 
with each other as to the logic of this or that argument, yet 
agree in the conclusion ? — I answer, that it is in exact 
analogy with the condition of human nature in general, and 
there is no more matter of surprise here than anywhere 
else. All i\\Q facts which determine human belief and con- 
duct, are less disputable than the theories of them. Nearly 
everybody believes in a material world ; but what endless 
disj^utes arise the moment we take the question into the 
field of metaphysics ! Almost everybody believes in the 
great facts of ethics ; yet perhaps you will hardly find five 
hundred who perfectly agree in any one of the many 
theories of them. Man is called, and justly, by Aristotle, 
" a j^olitical animal " ^wov TroXtrtKov, but you would be trou- 
bled, I fancy, to prove by any one line of argument, or any 
one class of phenomena, the truth of the assertion ; cer- 
tainly you would be troubled to prove that he had some 
" one i^olitical faculty " which led him to construct social 
and political organizations. You would rather dwell uj^on 
a variety of phenomena in his nature, (some of which might 
appear more important to this man, and others to that,) as 
justifying the conclusion ; you would say that his uniform 
" political " tendency was the resultant of a great number 
of forces, the separate directions and magnitudes of which 



510 THE G KEY SON LETTERS 

it might be difficult to calculate. Meantime, this fact of 
man's constitution remains the same, and nobody disputes 
or doubts it. It is, I fancy, much the same mth the 
Theistic argument ; the fact of man's general concurrence 
in the belief of Deity is unshaken ; and, if we may trust in- 
duction at all, ever will be so. God has so constituted 
human nature, that the general result of the djeveloiDment 
and interaction of all his powers and faculties is to bear 
w^itness to him ; though the elements which constitute that 
result may be too various to be comprised in one connected 
chain of argument, or sometimes too subtle to be stated in 
the forms of syllogism ; sometimes such as rather to be felt 
than seen ; sometimes in a measure dependent for their 
cogency on the modifications of the individual mind, so 
as to be differently aj^preciated by different persons. Thus, 
we find the argument at one time, fi'om "design," at an- 
other, from " intuition," chiefly insisted on ; this man thinks 
the " phenomena of conscience " form the most conclusive 
proof; this man rests on irresistible " sentiment," without 
troubling the intellect at all. Nay, these elements may 
severally appear at different times, of various degrees of 
cogency to the very same mind. Hence the folly, by the 
way, of one class of Theists depreciating the lines of argu- 
ment which are preferred by others. Meanwhile, the great 
fact, as you say, remains the same, however men may 
quarrel as to its theory, and so human nature in every age 
will have it, — " That there is a God." 

I am glad you have derived so much pleasure as well as 
instruction from Whately's " Logic ; " but let me tell you 
that his " Rhetoric," especially the chapters on Composition, 
are equally worth your study. In these days in which the 
obscure, nay, the unintelligible, both in philosophy and 
])oetry, seems to many young minds so ridiculously, so fan- 
tastically seductive, resolve on keei)ing thought and ex- 



BRIEF ANSWERS TO THREE QUERIES, 511 

pression clear, and study all such writers as may set you 
an example of suj^eriority, to all the nonsense talked about 
" perfect perspicuity " being inconsistent with " depth." 
The greatest thinkers and writers the world lias yet seen 
liave not been obscure ; they may give some trouble some- 
times, but their meaning for the most j^art is plain enough, 
and with a little extra diligence even their difficult passa- 
ges become so. But the j^resent rage for obscurity is a 
transient absurdity, which the next age will utterly des2:)ise. 
If anybody then wants the current German philosoj^hy, and 
much of our own, he will, for the most part, have to fah 

for it. 

Yours truly, 

R. E. H. G. 



THE END. 



NOTES. 



Pago 16. Post prand aim. After lunclieon. 
" 18. Piece de resistance. A round of beef. 
" 2.'3. EupTj/ca. I have found It 
" " Cuisine. A kitchen. 
" 26. AntiqucB vestigia Jiammce. Remains of the ancient flame 

or fire. 
" " Arcanum. A secret. 
" " fxT] cuyav. Not too much. 
" " Ne nimis. Not too much. 
" " Juste milieu. The true mean. 
" 27. Nesutor\hc]. Let not the shoemaker [go beyond his 

last]. 
" " Empressement. Dignity. 
" " Chef d'oeuvre, A masterpiece. 
" 28. Experimentum gustus. Trial of tasting. 
" « Cuisine. (See 25.) 
" 29. Entrees. First course of dishes. 
" " Entremets. Side dishes. 
" 33. Via dolorosa. Dolorous way. 
" 42. Ad cetJiera latum. Borne to the sky. 
" 50. VoUa. Behold! 
" " La pliilosophie De V Injini^ — C'es/, dans ces petits mots 

tout compris. The pliilosophy of the Infinite, — it is all 

comprised in these few words. 

" 54. De Senectute. Concernino^ old ajje. 

" 55. De Amicitid. Concerning friendship. 

(513) 



514 NOTES. 

P. GO. Gout. Relish. 

" Gl. Experto crede. Believe one wlio has had experience. 

*' 71. Enfant jJerdu. A lost child. 

" 72. Volla. (See 50.) 

" 74. Bouleversement. Confusion. An overturn. 

" 78. Ad ahsurdum. To an absurdity. 

" 91. Naive. Ingenuous. 

" 9 7. Ccpriccio. A freak. 

" 98. Idola ti'ibus. Idols of the tribe. 

" " Novum Organum. A new method of sclentlfc investiga- 
tion. 

" 100. Secundum artem. Skilfully. 

" 102. Ei To7s fie^vaKO/xevois eKacTTrfS rjjx4pas 

^AXyuv (Twefiaive rriv K^(paKi]V irph tov irieiv, 
Tou 'aKpaTov tijxwv ou5e els eirii/ev &u ' 
Nvu 8e irpSTcpSu ye tov ttoi/ov t)]V T)5ovr]V 
UpoAafifiduoyrei vcrTepovfxeu raya^ov. 
If it were the case that the head of him who gets drunk 
every day ached before drinking, no one -would drink 
the strong intoxicating wine. But obtaining the pleas- 
ure, as Ave now do, before the pain, we derive no bene- 
fit from our experience. 

" lOG. Tofo ccelo. Heaven-wide. 

" 112. Ohulus. A Greek coin of about the value of 3i cents. 

" 115. Denouement. The unravelling or discovery of a plot. 

*' 117. In jji'ofujidis. In deep trouble. 

" 119. Les vieillards sont dangereux. Old men are troublesome. 

" 136. Coup de main. A bold stroke. 

" 146. Ultima Thule. The utmost stretch or boundary. TJnde 
was the name given, in early history, to the northern- 
most part of the habitable world. 

'" 152. A fortiori. Much more. 

" 154. Proho meliora. I approve the better. 

" 156. Honi soit [&c]. Evil to him [who evil thinks]. 

" 168. Denouement. (See 115.) 

" 1 70. Piece de resistance. (See 18.) 

" 1 78. Aura. Breath of air. 



p. 


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203. 


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209. 


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211. 


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214. 


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222. 


u 


223. 


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225. 


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230. 


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241. 


u 


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242. 


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247. 


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278. 


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280. 


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281. 


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287 



NOTES. 515 

P«r excellence. Eminently, or by Wiiy of eminence. 

Experimentu-m Jiat in corpore v'di. Let the criminal suf- 
fer the consequence of his crime. 

Faux pas. A false step- 

Sang froid. Indifference. 

Badinage. Sport. Pleasantry. 

Toto ccelo. (See 106.) 

A p)riori. From cause to effect. 

irpcoTou TpevSos. TIic fundamental error. 

Ignis fatuus. A will o' wisp. 

Meum. Mine. 

Tiium. Thine. 

MacJiina. An instrument. 

Soi-disant. Pretended. 

Pro re natd. For the particular case. 

CalUda junctura. Skilful joinings. 

Soi-disant. (See 223.) 

Per se. By itself. 

Quid pro quo. Value for value. 

Brochure. A pamphlet. 

Momenta. Elements. 

A la mode. In the manner of. 

Ex jjost facto. After the fact. 

Quod aut ratione justce necessitatis aut intentione pia; 
uiilitaiis caret. Which is not absolutely necessary or 
has a religious use. 

Quod sine utilitate et loquentis decitur et audientis. "Which 
profits neither speaker nor hearer. 

Kevov priixa. 'Prjiia apyov. An empty word. An idle word. 

En masse. In a mass. 

Instar omnium. An example for all. 

Minimum. Smallest. 

Je ne sais p)as. I do n't know. 

Les gentilsliommes les plus polis dans tout le monde. The 
most polite gentlemen in all the world. 

Virtuoso. One skilled in the fine arts. 

In jietto. In secret. 



a u 



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289, 


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301, 


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303, 


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30G, 



OIG NOTES. 

P. 288. Horesco ref evens. I shudder at the recollection. 
Ahsit omen. May the sign fail. 
289. Delectant domi, non impediunt /oris, pernoctant nohiscum, 
peregrinanturj rusticantur. They delight us at home, 
they do not hinder us abroad, they spend the night 
■with us, they travel with us, they dweU with us in 
retirement. 
Impedimenta. Baggage. 
VoiVa. (See 50.) 
Quasi. As if, (used before English words to express 

resemblance.) 
Similia similibiis curantur. Like cures like. 
Non causa pro causa. The false for the real reason 
Viaticum. Provisions for a journey. 
De non apparentihus et non existentibus eadem est ratio. 
What does not appear is as if it did not exist. 
" 307. Vixerunt fortes ante Agamemnona. Brave men lived 

before Agamemnon. 
" 311. Non causa pro causa. (See 302.) 
" 312. Vis medicatrix. The healing power. 
" 313. Natures minister. Minister of nature. 
" 314. Similia similihus curantur. (See 301.) 
" 316. Non tali auxilio. Not with such aid. 
" 320. Furor mesmericus. Mesmeric enthusiasm. 
" 323. Tud pace. By your favor. 
" 325. En rapport. In communication. 
" " Populus vult decipi et decipietur. The people wish to be 

deceived and are deceived. 
" 328. Quid nunc. A news-monger. 
" " Proh pudor ! O shame ! 
" 330. Post mortem. After death. 
" " Ante mortem. Before death. 
" 331. Contre temp)S. An unlucky occurrence. 
" 334. Hoec olim meminisse juvahit. These things it will please 

us to remember hereafter. 
" 337. Hcec olim meminisse juvahit. (See 334.) 
" 339. De trop. Too much. 



i( 



(i (( 



NOTES. 517 

r. 339. Broclmre. (See 242.) 

" " Melange. A miscellany. 

" 341. Placebo. Conciliatory message — literally, I shall please. 

" " Badinage. (See 202.) 

" 344. Sang-froid. (See 201.) 

347. Quis custodiet i2)Sos custodes? "Who will keep the keepers 
themselves ? 

348. Casus belli. Cause of war. 
Cedant arma togce. Let arms yield to the toga, or the 

military to the civil power. 

349. Esprit de corps. The common spirit or disposition formed 
by men in association. 

Vidi — et victus vici. I saw — and defeated, conquered. 
Crepusculum. Twilight. 

At Se fi4\Ti(rTai x^/vxal iiavr^vovraL raura ovtcos exetj/. The 
noblest minds presage that these things are so; i. e., have 
a presentiment of immortality. 
In foro conscieniice. At the bar of conscience. 
Quasi. (See 301.) 
Alfresco. In coolness. 
Incunabula gentis nostrce. The cradle or origin of our 

nation. 
Quondam. Former. 
En rapport. (See 325.) 

Table d' hote. A common table for guests at a French 
hotel. 
" 388. On pilla, on se gorgea de butin ; tout le monde se crut 
lieureux jusqu' a ce que le jour ayant paru, les deux, 
villes connurent leur meprise. They pillaged, they 
gorged themselves with plunder ; everybody was happy 
until, when daylight appeared, the two cities found out 
their mistake. 
" 395. Roue. A debauchee. 
" 396. Ergo. Therefore. 

" 397. Cid de sac. an alley with no exit, i. e. a trap. 
" 404. Badinage. (See 202.) 
" 406. Habitat. Dwelling place. 

44 



(( 


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353. 


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364, 


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365. 


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371, 


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374, 


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385, 


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387, 



018 NOTES. 

Ojjcra omnia. Complete works. 

Hortus siccus. A botanical collection of dried specimens. 

Eya77eAtoj/. The gospel. 

Perdu. Hidden. 

De 11011 apparentihus et non existentibus eadem est ratio. 
(See 306.) 

Secundum artem. (See 100.) 

Eclaircissements. Explanations. 

Ad libitum. At pleasure. 

Totidem verbis. In so many words. 

Per saltum. By a leap. 

Per solium. (See 478.) 

Per scalas et gradatim. By steps and gradually. 

Per saltum. (See 478.) 

Idolum tribus. An idol of the tribe. 

Rationale. Philosophical statement. 

Point d' appui. Point of support. (A military phrase.) 

Ego. I. Myself. 

Le jilcbisant Dieu que voila. An agreeable God is such 
an one. 

A la. According to. 

Elite. Nobility. 
501. Une jmixelle de matiere magnetique, qui passe a travers 
du verre, n'est pas comimrable avec un grain du sable^ 
ni ce grain avec le globe de la terre^ ni le globe avec le 
firmament. A particle of magnetic matter which passes 
through glass cannot be compared with sand, nor this 
grain with the globe of the earth, nor the globe with 
the firmanent. 



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472. 


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475. 


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